


Rick Sanchez Bangfest 100 Years

by pokey_jr



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Belting, Biting, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Caretaking, Choking, Cocoon Creek Nursing Home, Cop Rick eats ass, Cunnilingus, D/s, Demon Summoning, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Fluffy, Gangbang, Humiliation, Ice Skating, Implied Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Miami Rick speaks Spanish, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Nurse/Patient, Older reader, Orgasm Denial, Other, POV Second Person, Pegging, Police Uniforms, Rebound Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rick swears at children, Rick's cum is addictive, Riding Crops, Road Head, Seductive eating, Shibari, Shooting Guns, Sleepy Cuddles, Spanking, Spooning, Squirting, Sub Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Teacher-Student Relationship, Uniform Kink, Virgin Reader, Voyeurism, eating ass, rickcest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 91
Words: 139,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12541480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: This will be the repository for my responses to Rick/Reader prompts and requests I've received on tumblr.The tags will reflect everything in all chapters posted. Unless it's clear from the request, I will note specific tags at the beginning of each chapter, as well as any trigger warnings.I'm also now throwing in one-shots here because there are too many of them to think of titles for.Plus adding all of my  prompt responses for dwc.





	1. Cop Rick Ride Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request for this was: Cop Rick takes you on a ride along?
> 
> tags: Rookie Cop Rick, Road Head, Uniform kink

"I'm turning on my tape recorder now," you inform the uptight, laconic officer. He nods as you press the red circle button. This interview opportunity is almost too good to be true: admission of a non-Rick or non-Morty to the hallowed Citadel of Ricks is rare, and to allow a journalist in is almost unheard of. This cop, Officer Rick, as he soberly introduced himself, doesn’t seem to mind being saddled with you for half a day.

Unlike everywhere else you’ve been so far, there is no 'minder' along for the ride. Whatever bureaucrat is in charge of your visit (and carefully controlling the Citadel's image for foreign eyes), he had overlooked the PR danger of putting a journalist in a car with a cop. According to your editor, this is supposed to be a fluff piece about the shiny new order of the Citadel, yet everywhere you’ve been you’ve glimpsed the hastily concealed tarnish of suffering and misery. Something is rotten in the state of Rick, but how can you capture it when throngs of happy Mortys keep bestowing you with garlands and glasses of champagne? 

Thus, Officer Rick. Your human-interest exposé. He wears his uniform well, quiet pride in his job evident in the sharp creases of his trousers, and his crisp, stiff collar. Once settled into the driver’s seat of the squad cruiser, his long, lanky limbs are at odds with the cramped space. Hmmm. What would it take to make him loosen up a bit? You turn that question over in the back of your mind, sizing him up. He's not bad looking, for an old man, and carries himself with the confidence of a quiet professional. 

Better start with a softball question, though. "Since Morty was elected, how have things changed for the average Rick?"

He gives you a withering look. "There is no average Rick. Ricks by definition aren't average."

You bite your tongue to keep from making a jibe at that. Living in a place where one's own likeness is worshiped and marketed in equal measure can't do an ego any favors. "Then what about for you? Has your job gotten easier? Harder?"

He glances uneasily at the tape recorder, which you placed between on the dashboard center console. That's an old trick. Keep it within equal reach of you and your subject, and they're less likely to ask you to turn it off. The illusion of control.

“Definitely easier. As you can see, the streets are safe. For every Rick, a Morty, and for every Morty, a Rick.”

You look out the window. It’s a pristine residential area, mansion after mansion, each with whitewashed walls and gold accents. All nearly identical. “This is Sanchez Heights, right?”

“Mhmm.”

“Is this your regular beat?” You ask off-hand, not expecting much of an answer, and taking the time to scribble descriptions of the neighborhood on your notepad.

“Nope.”

You stifle a sigh. You don't think he _means_ to stonewall you-- though if that's his intention, he's doing it magnificently. You decide to take a different tack. Get personal.

"What's your partner like?”

At this, his mouth thins. “You ask— you sure ask a lot of stupid questions.”

“It’s my job,” you say cheerfully. 

“Then you suck at your job.” He takes a hearty drink of coffee. “Ask better questions.”

“Give me better answers!” You snap, before thinking. “Ahem. Sorry.” You stare out the window again, watching the scenery pass as Officer Rick steers onto a long stretch of empty highway. Fields lay out wide across the horizon, dotted with a few farmhouses and colorful trees. A thought strikes you, looking out at those lonely houses. "What do Ricks do for fun? Companionship?"

He clears his throat. "Same things everyone does." He pulls at his collar, but doesn't elaborate.

"Sooo... bars? Strip clubs? Drinking and fucking?” He’s so proper, maybe you can catch him off guard a little, get a real answer from him. Any sort of reaction.

“Bars, sure. Gotta— need a way to let off steam at the end of the day.” He shifts in his seat, runs a hand over the spikes of his unruly hair. "What are you-- h-hey, what are you doing? Put your seat belt back on! That's not safe."

"Relax! Just taking off my sweater, it's warm in here." You don't miss Officer Rick's swiftly averted gaze as you wriggle out of your sweater. Interesting. Adorably repressed. Your low-cut t-shirt is much more comfortable for you, and much less comfortable for him. You keep catching his eye in the reflection on the center panel screen. Well, this interview might be a bust, but you can still have some fun. You lean over onto the center console between the two of you, putting your cleavage on display. "Tell me about this vehicle. Is the Citadel self-sufficient in terms of industry, to mass produce cars like this, or does it import?"

“Self sufficient, but what do you care? Why are you even here?” 

With the answers he’s giving you, there’s no good response to that. At last, you look him square in the eye and lick your lips. "What do Ricks _really_ do for fun?"

He swallows thickly, his gaze raking down and back up your body. "N-not enough."

"Hmm." You put a hand on his thigh. Despite your projected confidence, your heart is racing. “And what’s the, um, protocol for dealing with a Morty who gets out of line?” 

“Issue a verbal warning, failing that…” His voice catches in his throat as your hand moves higher. “I shouldn't be doing this.” He sounds like he's warning himself more than telling you to stop. 

“Handcuffs?”

He breaks. Reaches for your hand and moves it to his erection. You rub him through the scratchy navy wool of his trousers, earning a throaty groan from him. You admire the neat perfection of his uniform up close. He smells of wool and starch and fresh brewed coffee, and you want to see what happens when Mr. Buttoned Up undoes a few buttons. He bucks into your hand. 

“You’re not going to pull over?” You trace the outline of his shaft. Promising.

“Unnnh… no. We’re in the middle of nowhere. You— you just— you can get on with it.”

Finding the zipper is a bit tricky; Officer Rick gets impatient and swats your hand away. With quick, deft movements, he frees his cock. It springs free, already hard and thick. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, stroke down to pull back the foreskin, then back up. Impressive and veiny. “Isn’t getting road head while on patrol a violation of police protocol?”

Officer Rick growls. “Just shut up already. T-take my dick in your mouth. Suck me off, which apparently you’ve been dying to do since you got in the car, since you won’t shut your trap—"

You lick a broad stripe up the underside of his shaft. 

He jerks the wheel slightly and corrects. “Ohhh.” He is delightfully responsive, seems almost desperate for your touch.

You swirl your tongue around the head before taking him deep in your mouth. The skin is smooth and hot and salty, soft like silk over steel. He moans louder, but manages to keep the wheel steady. “Th-thaaat’s it… yeah, deeper.”

He palms the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair. He starts to guide your rhythm, until you catch on to exactly what he likes. You bob up and down on his cock, taking in as much you can. His girth stretches your mouth, makes your jaw start to ache. You keep going. You want to hear him cum, to feel him lose control, to have some sort of genuine, unscripted reaction.

It doesn’t take much longer. His breathing goes ragged. His fingers tighten, but he stops moving you, and you feel him tense up.

“W-watch the uniform, I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum, you… swallow it all.” Officer Rick’s voice trails off low and gruff. You quicken your hand and mouth, sucking him in as much as you can, until you feel his hips push up. The large head of his cock touches the back of your throat and you swallow around it. A pleading groan issues, and he cums in your mouth, hot and salty and bitter. You drink it all down, feeling immensely satisfied, and lick him clean before sitting back upright. 

For the first time that day, he gives you a smile, warm and a bit vulnerable. He tucks his softening erection back in his trousers and zips up. Impeccable in uniform once again. You're about to suggest stopping for coffee and donuts, and maybe getting a hotel room when a blinking red light on the dashboard catches your eye. 

“Oh, shit.”

“What is it?” 

“I left the tape recorder on.”


	2. Angsty Rebound Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The request for this was: “How would Rick react to finding out the reader got dumped by the ‘love of their life’, and they became super depressed about it?”
> 
> tags: angst, rebound sex

Getting dumped wasn't supposed to happen to you. You and Alex were the stable ones, the ones all your friends came to for advice. Three years wasn't that long, but it's more than six months, which was apparently the most anyone else could manage. 

And so here you are, standing in the frozen foods section at 9:30pm, crying because you can't decide between rocky road and mint chocolate chip. The decision feels both momentous and pointless and all you want to do is crawl back home so you can cocoon yourself in bed for a week, or month, or as far as you can imagine in the future.

You stare numbly at your reflection in the freezer door. They say not to let yourself backslide like this, but you're not even past the creature comforts stage yet. Thus, sweatpants and ugly shearling boots and a hoodie you found in your aunt's closet. Dressing like this makes it easier to fabricate a reason why he left you. A safe, impersonal reason, instead of the truth.

You heave a deep sigh, hand on the glass, knowing that it's not productive to just stand around feeling sorry for yourself. Not the way you're doing it, anyway. Being rational is too draining right now. Wallowing is easier. Rocky road or mint chocolate chip? You start to do eeny meeny miney moe. 

Someone announces his presence behind you by pointedly clearing his throat. "You could just get both?"

You look over your shoulder. "Sorry, sir, am I blocking...?' You step aside. An old man has been standing behind you, watching you cry, for who knows how long. He has the look of a mad scientist, complete with lab coat, so skinny he looks like he gets wrapped up in inventing stuff and forgets to eat. His hair stands in unkempt spikes. Probably shocked himself one too many times and now it won't stay down. His pants are a little too short for his long legs, and, like any respectable geezer, he wears high riding white socks.

At the same time you're sizing him up, he does the same of you... and comes to an unfavorable, albeit correct, conclusion. "Got dumped, huh? That's-- that's rough. If I were you I'd be hitting up the liquor section, not wasting time here. Ice cream for a break up? Bush league."

You wipe at your eyes. "Way ahead of you." You gesture to your cart, which contains a couple bottles of white wine.

He snorts. "That's all you're getting? Whoever it was must not have been that important to you."

"I wasn't important to him. Obviously." 

"Yeesh. Wallowing in self pity, you’re really co—eeeuurgh—overing all the bases here.”

You cycle through annoyance and disgust and relief. He’s blunt and uncensored and it’s a revelation. With your family and friends, you could count on the 'screw him!' support and 'you are a strong, independent woman' reassurances, but they wouldn't talk about it with you on a genuine level. They wouldn’t admit that maybe it was your fault. “Not quite all the bases,” you reply in a light tone. Are you _flirting_ with him?

“Oh? I-is that-- what are you trying to say? That you haven’t seen B.O.B. yet? ” 

“I…” Your face reddens. “I don’t have one. He didn’t want competition.”

The man’s brow furrows. “Shit. That’s a crying shame. Not even in the bath? Get-- gotta get, you know, some, uh nice candles, some smell good candles, glass of wine. What are you doing with your life?” 

Your blush deepens as you imagine touching yourself while this perv watches. All the rebound possibilities your friends had arranged for you, and none of them tempted. Now you're getting wet over this guy? He's definitely a senior citizen, a little odd, a little cocky. It would feel sleazy if he wasn't so damn perceptive. He watches you with a keen, even gaze, curious at your emotional reactions. “I-- I’m not… nothing. Why? Do you have a better idea?” You ask.

The smile he gives you is positively indecent.

\--

If your life were a movie, this would be when it would smash cut to a steamy shot of this stranger pushing you up against a wall. But it's most definitely not, since your break up has been an inescapable daily slog of misery rather than a tragic, artful montage. 

You have to bring your groceries to the checkout counter and pay for them. You have to walk with him out to his car, which he informs you is actually a spaceship, wondering if this is really safe and maybe you'll get murdered. At the point when you're fastening your seatbelt in his spaceship made of garbage, you realize you don't know his name, and he doesn't know yours. It's too late to ask, unless you want to make yourself feel even more awkward.

He pulls you onto his lap before you’re buckled in, presses his lips to yours in a question. Do you want this? Random hookups are not your thing, and never have been-- if you're honest, you've always judged people who do. What could be a baser expression of self-loathing than giving such an intimate part of yourself to a stranger? It's demeaning and unfulfilling and leaves you with nothing. Except maybe it's the experience you need at the moment. If the breakup was the catastrophe, this guy could be the liberating, jubilant recovery.

You moan into his mouth, giving yourself over to the rush of heat that consumes you. His hips roll up to grind against you, his hands slip down from your waist and pull you firmly to him. 

You rise for a moment and shove your sweatpants and underwear to your ankles so you can straddle him properly. The inside of his garbage ship is dimly-lit by the street lights in the parking lot, and the faint glow of the dashboard instruments. It offers a transparent privacy; if anyone happened by they would definitely see you

He guides you to the right spot; you take his cock with as much control as you can manage, but you close your eyes and bite your lip. You sink onto his length; he lets you ride him at your own pace. Rocking with him slowly at first, adjusting your body to his size. Soon you ache for more, an urgent need to mount him and abandon all thought. You reach a hand down between your body and his and rub your clit. No reason to expect him to do it. 

His hands don’t stay still, he runs them over your body, appreciating the soft curves. He brushes his fingers over the tight pucker of your asshole. “O-oh, you like that?” He chuckles at the way your breath catches. 

“Yeah…” 

“Want more? My finger?” Still stroking.

You tense up. “No, please. I don't…”

“Alright.” He keeps playing at the entrance, winding you up with little jolts of pleasure. His calculating observations turn lascivious. The kind of talk your ex never had the confidence to pull off. “This ass… f-fucking maaagnificent.” He squeezes it for emphasis. “Who-- whoever it was that let all this just walk away, what a-a-an-- what an idiot.”

“I thought it was bad form to talk about your ex while you're...with someone else.” You start to move faster. What would Alex think, seeing you now? Quick and dirty with an old lecher you met twenty minutes ago. Picking up a guy in a bar, isn't that how this kind of thing is normally supposed to play out? Except you couldn’t even get the ‘bar’ part right.  
He shrugs “I, uh, I don't give a shit. Y-y-you’re heartbroken, so fucking what? Whose fault is that? He dumped you and now you're riding my dick in a parking lot. Maybe I should thank him.” 

“Maybe you should just fuck me so I can forget about him.” 

He obliges, thrusting into you, moving with you. His gruff voice goes hoarse, panting against your neck-- “th-aaat’s it, good girl”-- you moan at his words. And when you start to clench around him, “fffuck yes, come on my dick, let me-- unnh-- let me feel you.” He groans, pounding a fast, merciless rhythm, and you match him with your fingers on your clit, crying out as you peak. Your mind is sublimely blank, at last, no more twisting, tangling thoughts, only pure, enveloping pleasure. 

It's only after you lift yourself off of him and slide back to the passenger seat that you feel the humiliating sting of tears in your eyes. Crying in front of someone you just met and fucked, real classy. You berate yourself, which only makes it worse, and you swipe under your eyes, while staring intently out the window, away from him. You still don't know his name. 

"Are you--?" He is incredulous, about to rib you about it, sounds like. 

You shoot him a guilty look. "Sorry." His half-smile fades, and he looks around furtively, as if he doesn't want anyone to witness what he's about to do.

"Come-- c'mere." His voice is gruff. He pulls you into his arms, tucks your head under his chin. His hand strokes your hair, and you rest your cheek against the even rise and fall of his chest.


	3. Belt Whipping Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The request: the reader spills a liquid by accident on Rick and makes him young again. And punish the reader. (The reader is cleaning the garage)
> 
> TW: Belting
> 
> Also there is orgasm denial. Rick is not nice here.

“Ah, what the _fuck?_ You stupid...god damn it, do you have any idea how long it's going to take me to reverse this? I-I-I-I-- it's not gonna be easy, I don't-- I need Prdindk Ore for the--for the thing.”

“I'm so sorry Rick, please let me make it up to you. I'll help, just let me know what I can do.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, you wanna know how you can help? Cause you sure were doing a great job of it when you fucking _Benjamin Buttoned me!”_

“I'm sorry!” His age lines are indeed gone. His skin is smoother, light and even toned. He's rather handsome, though his hair is still mussed, and his scowl is exactly the same as the Rick you know.

He dives under the counter for a second, looking for something, and comes back up with a tall white cone. "Here. Go--eeeuurgh stand in the corner. Put this on. Act like a child, get treated like one."

Tears prick your eyes, but you take the dunce cap and numbly do as he told you. Your thoughts bounce between feeling humiliated and resentful at his high-handed treatment. You watch Rick, who has started pipetting and decanting various liquids. You recognize some of them. when he's not in a mood like this, he actually teaches you. You're a quick learner, he's said it before. If he would only let you help him, you can prove you're not useless. The idea that he might hate you now makes you a little nauseous. You have to speak up, get him to give you a chance to make this right. 

He notices you staring and sneers, "no, face the corner. I don't want your incompetence distracting me." 

Your face burns, indignant. How could he say that, when it had been an accident? You hadn't meant to sabotage him, nothing nefarious. And the outcome wasn't even disastrous; he was young again! Entire industries are devoted to selling people stuff to stop the aging process. You had reversed it, albeit by accident, and Rick has the nerve to snark at you. Anyone other than him would be thanking you and offering you money for whatever miracle serum you had spilled. You cross your arms and pout, refusing to turn around.

He sighs, like he's realized how unreasonable he's being. "Okay, you know what, come h--come over here.”

You take a step, then stop. Your brief elation at being invited back dissipates. Why is he removing his belt? “Rick…?” You start to say.

He levels you with a cold glare. "Y-you really want to test me right now? Fucking _try it._ Lean over the counter.” You swallow, but go to him, queasy with anticipation. Is he really going to take it this far?

This is not the first time he's granted you his particular attentions. He bent you over his knee once, when you wouldn't stop pestering him. "O-oh? Getting spanked like a naughty girl, that's what you like? Gets you wet? I-i-if I didn't know better, I'd say that makes you a slut." He smiled around that word, savoring it. You knew you deserved it, and worse, you enjoyed it, which he noticed immediately. Every second, from his hand striking your bare ass, to the heat that pooled between your legs as a result. and now you crave him, and the praise he gives you, rare as it is.

“The garage door is open,” you protest feebly.

“You think I fucking care?” He snarls, his cold anger suddenly spilling over. “Aaasss up, baby, over the counter. All the neighbors are gonna see your pretty little cunt get dripping wet."

At that promise, you go to him, handing the cone back, and bend over the counter next to the deep sink. You squirm with anticipation as he pulls your pants and underwear down to your knees-- had you known this would be happening, you would have worn something cuter-- he slaps your thigh when you try to peer at him over your shoulder. 

His mouth is set in a cruel sneer. He re-fastens the ends of his belt, creating a strap, and pulls on it. The leather creaks. “Eyes-- eyes forward. Did I say you could look at me? Don't. Move.”

You sniffle miserably.

"This is what you-- what happens when you don't follow simple instructions. Mistakes...fine. Disobedience has consequences. Do you understand your punishment?" His voice goes low.

"Yes." You are petulant, whimpering, hating yourself for the little flame of desire he’s stoked in you.

"Do you agree?"

You nod. Rick raises his hand and brings the belt down where it cracks against your skin with a vicious slap. Your body tenses involuntarily, the natural reaction to something like this. He lays stripes of pain across your bare skin, bringing the belt down over and over, never in the same place. He is dispassionate, a silent backdrop against your wails. Each stinging blow wrenches another sob from your throat; fat tears roll down your cheeks, distraught at having displeased him this badly. And yet, when he stops, the pain he leaves you with fades, mutates into a sinister, aching need. "Rick, please..."

"I know you're getting-- getting all wet for me, you little slut. You wanna come, don't you? But you're gonna s-- you're not supposed to like this. I'm not your boyfriend. I'm not some-- I'm not your _Master._ " He strokes his fingers through your wet slit. You moan, hips pressing back, desperate for contact but he pulls away. 

"No. Pull your pants up." You do, and as you stand up, you see him licking the fingers he just touched you with. He raises his eyebrow. "What are you staring at? Ge-eeeurgh-et out. I need to-- gotta figure out what brilliant mistake you made so I can recreate it and I'm-- I don't want any more distractions."

Your heart sinks at this pronouncement-- the insults, the belt, the denial, you could endure it all, but to be sent away is raw injustice, and the cruelest punishment. Rick knows it, and ignores you as you let yourself out of the garage. 

**

Bonus deleted scene:  
Jerry walks in.  
Rick freezes mid-swing. “I'm… not your Rick. Im S&M Rick. If I had a whip on hand, this is where I would crack it for emphasis.” He looks at the belt in his hand. “But, uh, I guess this’ll do.”


	4. Pegging Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Oh please please pleaseeeee write a glorious fic about Rick being pegged over his work bench.

Rick's choice of toy was laughable. The _size_ of the thing. It really shouldn't be allowed. (You later discover, while watching a news channel on interdimensional cable, that the one Rick possesses, in fact, illegal, having been outlawed by an intergalactic government for reasons including ‘excessive heat friction’ and ‘mis-appropriation of intra-neural research’. But that doesn't clear your conscience.)

“Rick, this thing is--”

“Rick-diculous? I know.”

“-- _ludicrous_ ,” you continue over him. “And not happening.”

“Oh, so you’re scared.”

“No, I’m not! It’s just--” you scramble for an excuse, _any_ excuse, because you’re perilously close to giving in, which is unthinkable “--too...too complicated!”

One side of his eyebrow goes up.

“Too many buckles! Too many lights and settings and-and-- where does this part go?” You brandish it at him.

He waits a beat before answering, smugly. “You.” 

Your imagination-- a treacherous, unreliable thing-- leaves you in the dust, picturing him beneath you, as you fuck that smirk right off his face. How he would moan your name and try to stroke himself, but _ooh no_ , you’re not about to let him get away with all this so easily. You would have to hear him beg for it. Perhaps tie his hands above his head, because he hates being told what to do, and any opportunity to be contrary is his ideal entertainment. And as you rock into him, the… _implement_ … would be inside you, too. What could that possibly feel like? It’s an experience so far outside your normal domain, it feels vulgar just thinking about it. 

What a fruitless train of thought. Never going to happen. You shake yourself out of it. You haven’t even had sex with him yet, only made out a few times, and flirted outrageously, and you’re not sure what you’re holding out for, but it certainly wasn’t this. When you turn him down that evening, more firmly than you intended, he shrugs, and doesn’t press the issue.

 

But for the rest of the week, he leaves it out, in obvious places around the house. Even welds a display stand and puts it on the Smith family’s dining table as a centerpiece, proudly announcing that he’s taking a sculpture class at the community center. Beth and Jerry coo over it, elated that the resident cantankerous grouch is contributing his talents towards something positive, something more constructive than lazing on their couch all day, drinking their beer, watching their TV.

It’s not immediately recognizable as a strap-on, innocuous enough that you had overlooked it at first when Rick had set it out on his workbench, but their ignorance is truly astounding. When you are over to visit, which is frequently, they invite you to admire it with them, and you bite your tongue, catching Rick’s eye across the room. He preens at the accolades, ill-gotten though they are. 

“Dad!” Beth looks a little teary. “I didn’t know you were an artist!”

“Oh, daddy’s got loo--eeuurgh-ots of surprises, sweetie. And it’s-- this class, really amazing. I just finally feel like I can express myself, y’know? Wh-wh-what do you think, Jerry? Are you getting anything from my masterpiece? Inspiring any...repressed desires?”

“Hmm…” Jerry seems particularly intrigued by the objet d’art, and makes several circuits around the table, to view it from all angles. “I’m getting a sense of… foreboding. Like, I know I shouldn’t be looking at it, but I just can’t tear my eyes away!”

“So majestic!” Beth adds, launching into a discussion with her husband about inviting all the neighbors on the block over for a party to see their new piece. Jerry gets excited, spinning off into a fantasy about becoming an ‘art-collecting family’ and bestowing their largesse to international museums.

Rick grins at you, as if to say, ‘see?’

You swallow and look away, because you’re definitely not thinking about him, not like that. Drunkenly making out with your neighbor’s live-in grandfather a few times is one thing, agreeing to peg him is something else entirely. You haven’t even seen him with his pants completely off yet. 

Summer, passing through from the kitchen, takes one look at the thing and sneers. “That’s a strap-on.” And continues to the living room. 

Beth’s face falls. Jerry, who has picked it up and is holding it to his cheek, throws it to the floor with a yelp of disgust. 

You hold out for a while, the thought of Rick and the implement haunting you. You resist giving it a name, though he does text a professional photo of it one evening, titled ‘El Señor’. You are in the middle of typing what you hope is a witty reply, when he sends another message. _Wanna see me use it?_

Followed shortly by another picture. His fly unzipped, front of his pants shoved down enough to see his underwear (tighty whities, how quaint) and the unmistakable bulge of his erection. 

You stare at the image on your phone, mind reeling with arousal. _You really want to?_ You reply, and watch your screen intently, waiting for the three dots… and then watching the three dots. You squeeze your thighs together. Is it possible that he can see you through your phone somehow? Does he have a way to know that you’re just sitting in the dark in your bedroom waiting for his response?

It’s a video. 

“H-heeeey sexxyyy.” Rick’s face appears close in, poorly lit; he takes a swig from his flask and wipes drool from his mouth as he backs up. His phone must be propped against something on his workbench, it’s steady and you recognize the shelves and door behind him. He stumbles to the stool and kicks out his long legs. His pants are still undone, lab coat and shirt more rumpled than usual. He grabs the bulge through his underwear, rubbing it. He bites his lip, eyes hooded, and it feels like he can see you through the screen, though of course he can’t...can he? It doesn’t stop you from watching. You peer closer, as if that will make the camera zoom in. As if knowing what you really want to see, he tucks the waistband of his underwear below his balls, letting his erection lie up against his stomach, thick and heavy. 

Your mouth waters. A breathy chuckle escapes his throat, like he can see the intensity of your fixation on the tiny glowing screen. 

“Y-you know what I’m thinking about right now? I’m thinking about you f— I want you to fuck me.” His hand goes to his cock as he says this, his eyes fluttering closed. He starts stroking himself, long and full, from the base to the head. His other hand goes to push back his wiry, frizzy hair, which springs back up.

“I want you to fuck me,” he growls again. 

Pure lust suffuses your senses, a wave of carnal heat. He can’t actually be convincing you that this is a good idea, can he? Because it’s all starting to seem reasonable. Enticing, even.

“You— just fuck me, pound my ass, I wanna feel—“ he breaks off, his head tipping back, but doesn’t come. Just sighs, rolls his shoulders, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. Stares coolly into the camera. Like dropping an act. “And that’s aaa—eeurgh—aaalll you get. Think about it.” He grins and the screen goes dark.

You throw on a hoodie and shoes, grab your purse, and leave your house before you’re quite aware of where you’re going. The Smiths’ house just down the block, and the walk is far enough to give you a chance to reconsider. _‘Think about it.’_ How could you not? Those words, most of all, rattled you. Your flat soled sneakers slap on the pavement. You pull your hood up, crossing your arms against the chill. It’s dark already, the sun set a few hours ago, ceding to a crisp fall night. Fresh air should help you get your priorities straight, and think about this rationally, instead of with your interest in banging the intriguing, vulgar neighborhood scientist. Your attraction to him is inexplicable. In all honesty, he is a bit gross, cranky, rude, dismissive and somehow also demanding. And yet none of that stopped you from making out with him before. You have to ask yourself why you’re really so reluctant. Why you can’t turn off your mind and make yourself stop picturing his mouth between your legs and how enthusiastically he would lick your pussy.

Why are you so against this? Every good answer is another excuse.

Rick is hunched over his workbench, working on a guitar with great concentration. His eyes widen when he sees you. “Oh. You’re here.”

You shut the door from the kitchen behind you. “Summer let me in.”

He lets you stand and fidget by the washing machine and dryer for a few, excruciating minutes, with the only sounds being the clink of his tools. 

“Okay, fine. You know what? Fine. Where is it?” You stride to him and he stands aside. 

“Wh-what are you looking for?” He asks innocently.

“Where is… the— where is El Señor?”

He coughs into his fist. “What— uh— why do you want it? You gonna tell me?”

“I— you know what—“ Fuck him. Fuck him and his smug, taunting face. You’re horny and frustrated and sleepless, all because of him, and if he wants this so badly, you’re ready to give it to him.

You push him bodily against his workbench, though he is much taller than you. His mouth curves into a wide smile. “No.” You jab your index finger at his chest. “I’m not telling you. Where is it?”

“Whoa,” he laughs. “Bo—eeeurgh—ossy. Here.” He opens one side of his lab coat and there it is, tucked in one of the deep pockets. You take it.

“I need a step stool for this.”

“Under there—cabinets.”

As you turn away, Rick undoes his belt and shoves his trousers and underwear down. 

“I...um…” your bravado dissipates as soon as you pull the step stool over and stand on it. You’re still nowhere near as tall as he is.

He pulls you close and kisses you. You can feel his semi-erect cock pressing against your belly, his hips thrust, rubbing himself there insistently. After all the teasing back and forth of the past week, he is urgent and demanding. Your clothes come off quickly, end up a tangle on the floor. He doesn’t give you time to be self-conscious, growling as he bites at your neck, and lower. You look down from your perch when he kneels.

“Before you— before we do this, I gotta taste you. Trust me, it’s… I’ll make sure you feel…”  
His crooked nose presses on the soft flesh of your mound. His tongue flicks out. He laps at your clit, pushes one finger into you, then two, knuckle deep, and you clench around him, already primed and wet from watching the video. He grabs your ass, pulling you closer to his face, and his tongue won’t stop. You cum so easily, moaning his name, fingers twisting in his hair. You’re almost disappointed you couldn’t last longer.

Rick stands, licking your juices from his lips. His mouth is shiny with your wetness.

“Let’s get you— eeurgh— strapped in.” He helps you with the apparatus, slides the shorter, smaller side of it into your slick, yielding channel, and fastens the various belts around your waist and legs.

The whole thing feels larger and heavier than it looks. You stare down at your temporary new appendage. Rick follows your gaze, looking flushed. “That’s— that’s, uh— it’s a good look on you. I think you should consider it, you know, business casual a-and all that.”

“Bend over, Rick. Over your workbench.” You feel a little foolish wearing the thing and ordering him around, but Rick’s obvious arousal encourages you. He shrugs out of his lab coat, crumples it up and throws it aside. His blue shirt follows. He turns around, bracing himself on his forearms. His bony ass is actually kind of cute and _oh god, did you really just have that thought?_

You squeeze one cheek, then the other. “Your butt is cute.” And now you’ve told him.

He laughs. “Yeah I’m-- it’s gonna fart in your face if you don’t fuck it soon.” But he sounds flattered, and he’s blushing a little.

“Lube?” You ask.

Despite his rude stories about a stint as a Mega seed drug mule, nothing slide out or in easily. He has a tight little hole; you touch and play with him for a few minutes with a well-lubed finger, never going deeper than your first knuckle. It’s so tight and hot, gripping you, and he groans with impatience. Too cautious for his liking. 

He hands the bottle to you. “Here. Make-- y-you gotta-- eeurgh-- make sure that thing is as slippery as a greased pig.” 

"Rick, are you sure I’m not going to tear something?" Touching it as you spread the lube makes the other end move inside of you. 

“Hey, you worry a-a-about your butthole and I’m-- I’ll worry about mine, deal?” He holds his dick, pumping his hand. “Just put it in already, I can take it, I-I-I want it…” He huffs out a breath. “S-stretch me out a little, make it...unnh…make it hurt.”

You align the head of the thing, though as you press into his tight opening it seems too big to fit. You watch, transfixed, as the tight ring of muscle swallows it, inch by inch, and Rick Sanchez is, for once, rendered speechless, the insufferable bastard. It doesn’t last long. He gives the most wonderful moan, hunching his shoulders. “Y-esss, that’s it.” 

You thrust shallowly, experimenting to see how it feels for him, and for you too. His back flexes, he moves under you, whipcord thin and sinewy. When he moves, you feel it. “Rick…” There’s something else, too-- you’re not only feeling the dildo inserted in your pussy, but it almost seems like you can feel what he’s feeling. You give a particularly deep stroke and-- “oh!” You yelp. Definitely felt that. 

“Y-you like that?”

“What was that?”

“Alien sex toy. You really didn’t think it- it wouldn’t have-- it wouldn’t come with state of the art neural overlays?”

“Meaning I can feel…”

“Everything you’re doing to me, yes. I have a dildo in my ass, so you get to feel it too, scaled down to-- uhh-- be comfortable for you, and will you just _fuck me already?_ ” He bucks his hips backward and you nearly double over him from the sensations that causes. You catch yourself leaning over with a hand flat on his workbench. “O-ohh.” You roll your hips a little awkwardly, and start pumping into him with an insistent, beating rhythm. The sight of the thick purple shaft penetrating him, disappearing and reappearing, only spurs your arousal. Along with the fact that he so clearly loves it.

“Yeah, fffuck— fuck my ass, baby, give it to me deeper.” He moves with your pace, panting beneath you, his hand still moving rapidly on his cock. The sensation of being filled in both holes is glorious, and already you feel yourself reaching for another orgasm. The thought occurs to you that you’re technically in the position of power here, but Rick had still set it all up, maneuvered you so that you’re at his mercy. And as much as he begs you, he’ll never say please. 

Apparently, there is one more surprise in store. “See the little pink button by the base? On the right. Press it.”

It vibrates. Of course it vibrates. Rick groans and starts to come apart and yells at you to go faster. You drive into him, powerful and deep, and he takes it, wantonly pleading to your name. When he cums, he is writhing, wild, pulling you right along with him. You cry out as your pleasure overwhelms you, swift and sharp, your own movements in him drawing out your climax. Breathless, heart racing, you collapse against his back. His skin is sweaty, he smells of whisky and that kind of soap only old men use.

After a few minutes, you get restless and pull away, disentangling yourself from El Señor (a device which, by your revised estimation, deserves a more regal name.) 

Rick gets up and sighs with a dopey smile on his face. “That-- thank you. Sometimes I just need a-- eeurrgh-- need a good reaming.”

You nod, trying not to show how pleased you are. “So… what else can this thing do? Make coffee? Win on Jeopardy?”

In an instant, he’s back to the crotchety jerk you know and tolerate. “No. What are you st-- what are you expecting here? It’s a strap-on, not a smart home assistant. And are you just gonna stand there all night? I don’t need spectators.”

You shrug at the dismissal and start getting dressed to mask the sting of rejection. “Okay.” When you’re about to let yourself out of the garage, he clears his throat. 

“I-I-I’m-- if you’re not busy next weekend, you could come over, and I’ll show you all the different settings. It’s reaaally not that complicated, I promise.”


	5. Crush on Doofus Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Having a crush on Slow Rick, and talk to him out of confidence. But one thing leads to another.
> 
> Please note, I did not write this as Slow Rick, since he's mentally handicapped and implied to be at the mental age of a fourteen year old. I changed it to Doofus Rick.
> 
> tags: mutual masturbation, first experiences

Pack a room full of Ricks and they always bring out the worst in each other. A whole house party of them? It’s a vortex of noise and chaos, bullying, one upmanship, and general debauchery. Against your better judgment, you accepted the invitation to the night’s festivities, figuring it would be an entertaining way to spend an evening, though you double and triple checked with Beth that at least she and her family would be there to supervise. 

Well, apparently reassurances mean shit to Beth Smith, because neither she nor her husband Jerry are anywhere to be seen. Their fourteen year old son, Morty, welcomes you into the house, which is bright and pulsing with grating music.

“H-hi,” he greets you by name, stammering. “You, um… you look— you look fancy!”

“Thanks, Morty.” You step inside, pulling at the hem of your dress. “Isn’t there anyone else here? Other than… your grandfather...s?”

Morty heaves a sigh of immense forbearance. “Other than some dinosaur strippers, Squanchy, and my sister, no. Also, they’re not _all_ my grandpa, just—“ he looks around “— that one.” He points to a normal Rick, who is leading some sort of group dance.

You sympathize with Morty’s exasperation. Beth had led you to believe that this would be a sedate, elegant event, hence your slinky red cocktail dress and matching heels. You’re a knockout, and you know it. As you follow Morty to the kitchen, many of the Ricks not engaged in dancing or flinging cash at busty reptiles take notice of you. They greet you in sequence. You ignore most of them, acknowledging a few with a nod or awkward smile.

“Is Rick J-19-Zeta-7 here?” You ask Morty. You’ve met him in passing before. His company would make this evening infinitely more tolerable.

“Um… who?” Morty hands you a red solo cup full of punch. “There’s liquor in the dining room if you want it stronger.”

“He has a bowl cut. Buck teeth.” The cutest, friendliest smile.

A nearby Rick dressed in flannels and holding a cricket bat overhears you. “Doofus Rick? What do you want with that wanker? Have you checked the loo?”

You frown at the description, and Cricket Rick’s incongruous accent. Maybe it’s best to just leave. It’s not that late yet, you can still take yourself out for a glass of wine, catch some live music downtown.

“I know who you’re talking about. Come-come on.” Morty snatches a ceramic vase out of the air that two Ricks are playing catch with and ushers you to the dining room.

A diverse cluster of Ricks crowds around the table, clamoring over each other.

“Come on, Doofus Rick, show us— show us your favorite recipe!”

“Haha Yeaaahhh, how ‘bout it, what're you gonna make, a shi--eeeuurgh--it sandwich?"

You elbow your way to a better view. Rick-- your Rick-- has an array of chemistry equipment before him. Flasks and beakers on stands, a lit bunsen burner over which bubbles a blue liquid. "Hey, I told you guys, I don't eat poop!"

“Look at him, he’s smiling!”

"I'm-- no I'm not! Th-that's just the way my face is, guys! Stop distracting me, I'm trying to make something for you."

“He has a shit-eating grin! Get it?!”

“UGH, yes, we get it, Obvious Pun Rick.”

J-19-Zeta-7 recovers his composure when he starts explaining his science. "Okay, I have a recipe I think you guys are really gonna like here. First, you take purified, de-ionized water. Room temperature is fine. Then, you just add three drops of the blue stuff-- my own secret recipe-- and..." He pipettes the necessary amount into a large glass jug of water and stands back. The liquid turns blue, then rich burgundy. "There you go! Water into wine!" He dips a cup in and takes a sip, but grimaces. "But I don't really like alcohol, so I'll leave it all for you guys!" He smiles around the table at his fellow Ricks, hope in his eyes. 

Even as a scuffle breaks out over the wine, Sailor Costume Rick shouts over the din, "yeah, great, even if he is Jesus, the real miracle would be to get him to stop eating shit."

 

Rick's confidence crumples, his shoulders hunch. No 'thank you's', no acknowledgement. They just gulp it down, making ribald jokes. Rick stares at the ground. If you were in his position, you would have started crying, or had an angry outburst. 

You make your way to his side, attracting more greetings on the way, but the attention does not impress you. It is insignificant, more of the same, confident guys fronting because they want something from you. You despise the insincerity of it. You'd much prefer someone to show their true emotions, honesty, vulnerability. An exchange on equal footing.

"Rick J-19-Zeta-7?" You touch his elbow. When he looks to see who it is, his lower lip is trembling. "Would you mind coming with me? I have something to show you."

**  
You have to expel three Ricks and an exotic Brontosaurus from Beth and Jerry's bedroom to secure a private place in the house. Up here, with the door shut and the curtains drawn, you feel much more at ease. You sit on the bed and toe off your heels, wiggling your feet. Better.

Rick initially tries to take the chair at the computer desk, but you pat the bed next to you. He comes over and leaves a chaste amount of space between you. 

"Rick..." you scoot closer to him. He had chosen milk instead of juice and now runs his finger incessantly on the rim of the glass. You put your hand over his, and take the glass, setting it on the nightstand. "Lean against the headboard."

"Why? What are you going to do?" But he accedes. You like how trusting and kind he is, though you suspect if you tell him he'd get embarrassed. With his back against the headboard, his legs stretch out long. You hitch the hem of your dress up a little, then straddle his lap. His eyes go wide. 

"Just talk." You toy with the lapels of his lab coat. "I wanted to be able to look you in the eye. Are you okay?"

"I-it's fine. They’re always like that." His blush is endearing.

"If they’re always like that then why would you come to this thing?" 

"I’m used to it. Plus, I had that new recipe I wanted to show them, I thought it would make them happy. I like making other people happy." He says it like it makes him miserable. "Jerry told me he would be here, but I guess he had to go to something with Beth. I understand. I wanted to make sure it was a fun party for everyone, but I guess I'm not very good at that."

You shrug and one of the straps of your dress slips down your shoulder. You don’t fix it, enjoying the way it distracts him. "There's other ways to make people happy."

"I know. Like, balloons, o-or hot chocolate on a rainy day." He stares at your bare neckline.

You giggle. He really is adorably sweet. "Yeah, exactly. And you don't have to bend over backwards for the other Ricks, they're impossible to please. Not worth it."

He keeps glancing at you and then looking away like he's been caught. "Y-you... you're pretty. Really. Beautiful." 

Warmth suffuses you at the earnest compliment. "See? That made me happy! You're great at it!" You shift, lifting the hem of your dress higher so you can sit more comfortably.

"I-I can see your..." He trails off. His ears are bright red, his gaze fixed on the skimpy lace covering the juncture of your thighs.

"Cute, right?” You spread your legs wider and pull the material up tighter so he can see the outline of your sex. “Do you like them?"

He nods. "Can I... am I allowed to touch you?" He sounds like he’s recovered some of his confidence. Scientist’s curiosity.

You move your hand in invitation. Rick’s touch is light, reverent, a little clumsy. He hesitates, going slow, like he’s expecting you to tell him to stop. You wonder if he can feel the heat emanating from your core. There is a definite bulge in his pants. You want to touch him, grab his shaft through the material to see how he’ll moan and buck into your hand, but you hold off. For now, you roll your hips to try to get him to touch you more. You need friction, but you don’t want to rush him, or scare him away.

“Rick?” You take his face in your hands. "Are you nervous? It's okay to be nervous."

“No! I’m not.” He’s defensive, his hands falling by his sides. The defiance doesn’t last long. "I-I've never... no one's ever..." the words catch in his throat. He won't look you in the eye.

"Rick." You brush his cheek with you thumb. 

“Y-you’re not just here out of pity, are you?” His voice is bitter. 

“Rick,” you repeat. You wish you could express how tender your feelings are towards him, but it would be hollow, and inarticulate. You’d rather prove him wrong through actions, show him the sincerity of your affection.

“Watch.” You push the flimsy material of your panties aside, revealing your slit. Wet and shiny. You show him how you like to draw your fingers through your folds, circling your clit. His focus on you is intense, and it spurs your desire. You hum with pleasure, refuse to look away from him. You want him to hear you. 

As you move, the neckline of your dress slips down further. You’ve foregone a bra this evening, and your nipples are peaked, pointing through the thin fabric. Rick lifts his hand cautiously, mesmerized, his attention torn between your breasts and the movement of your hand. He touches your chest, fingers ghosting over the swell of your breast, down, dragging the material. He exposes one breast completely, then the other, and then… stops. 

You bounce a little, shake your tits in his face. That’s the cue he needs. He lowers his mouth to your skin eagerly, kissing, nuzzling. He takes his time to experiment, even works up the courage to cup one in each hand, squeezing a little harder than you like at one point. At your yelp of pain, he is immediately guilty, apologizing. But he doesn’t stop this time, and you luxuriate in the sensuous attention he pays you. 

Between his ministrations and your own hand, you might come too soon. Your own fingers feel good but you’d prefer it were Rick touching you. He’s naive, but obviously a quick learner. "Give me your hand." 

He lifts his head, smiling shyly. There are two red spots, high on his cheeks. He holds out his hand and you replace your own fingers on your clit with his.

“O-oh.” He breathes out, a mix of wonder and desire. He proves to be an apt, eager student. He mimics what you were doing, switching to place his thumb on your clit and his middle finger stroking your wetness, teasing your hole. Has he _really_ never done this before? His thumb rubs circles that wind you up, make you grab his shirt. A moan escapes your lips. You need to touch him now, and you tell him, and he nods yes, a little frantic. The tent in his trousers is so big, the fabric pulled tight. Looks like it hurts. You undo his belt, the button, the fly. He shimmies a little so you can pull his underwear down too, and then his cock springs free. Hard and heavy, veiny in a way you didn’t expect. It’s the most intimidating part of him. Precum already leaks from the red swollen head. When you close your hand around his shaft he gives a desperate moan. “Ahh… p-please…”

You stroke him leisurely, though you’re not about to tease him. You swipe your thumb over his tip. You rock against his hand-- he has one finger in you now, you clench around it, tell him how to please you. He takes instruction well, curves it like a bow, pressing inside you and his thumb rubs circles just like you showed him. 

"Yes, that's it, Rick... perfect, it feels..." His free hand goes to your waist, finally, trailing up the bare skin from your leg to the curve of your ass. You lean forward and rest your forehead against his, as if that might help you communicate to him exactly how good he's doing. It's his hands on you, you want him to realize. His hand stroking the pulse of your arousal that has lifted you to this state of need so close to ecstasy.

Anything that articulate eludes you. All you manage is a breathy sob, "y-es , Rick, I'm gonna c..." as your pussy convulses around his finger. You feel his length twitch in your hand.. Right as you cum, you throw your head back, catch a glimpse of his face. He looks awestruck and loving, you think you've just won his everlasting devotion. You float along the pleasure he gives you, which draws out slow and warm, like a late evening in autumn. 

You can’t neglect him for long, though. Rick kisses you, his lips dry and soft, and his hips push up into your hand. Even now, when he is close and wanting, he does not demand. His touch is gentle, halting. He breaks away to moan pleadingly, you pump your hand faster. His cock pulses and he tenses, shudders, comes apart spectacularly. He repeats your name like a mantra, "-- please, yes, _please_ ", his hands have moved to clutch your ass and they squeeze when your hand squeezes. Cum spurts from his cock, thick ropes of it, saved up just for you. All over your hand, some on your naked thighs and dress, his pants and shirt. At last he releases a deep, shaky sigh. His eyes are closed and he rests his head against the headboard.

"Tha-that was... I'm sorry." His voice is small when he looks at you again.

"What for?" You grab some tissues off the nightstand and wipe up. 

"I-- you-- you-- you're just so pretty, and you felt so good, and when you- when you..." He swallows, blushing. "I'm sorry. You were nice to me and I messed it up."

"Hey." You steady him with a hand on his chest. His heart is beating wildly. "You didn't mess up. I'm up here with you instead of downstairs because I like you." You slide off his lap and snuggle up next to him, pulling a blanket from the foot of the bed to cover both of you instead of arranging your clothes. You fit yourself to his body, just the right height. 

He lays his cheek to the top of your head. "Oh."

"And if you're really worried that you got something wrong, you can always try again. I'm happy to be your guinea pig."


	6. Submissive Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Im dying for some submissive rick puppy x master action
> 
> tags: D/s, spanking, gendered slurs, praise kink, riding crop, whipping with riding crop, blowjob, gender neutral reader

Neither your first nor your second conversation with Rick Sanchez gives you any indication of who he really is.

"H-hey, Beth, hey sweetie. Who's your, uh, who's your friend?"

Beth is distracted, rummaging for something in her purse, so you introduce yourself. "We know each other from college."

At the word ‘college’, he turns away with a grimace, and throughout the course of the week you spend visiting with Beth, you see very little of him, mostly forgetting that he exists.

Your second conversation with him proves slightly more memorable.

"Mr. Sanchez, I'm not interested." You’re in the kitchen with him on the last day of your visit. It’s 10 a.m. and he’s drunk, and surprisingly coquettish.

"Because I'm old?"

"Because I doubt you can be what I need."

"Which is what?" He presses, still flirtatious.

You give him a level stare. "Submission. Instant and willing obedience."

"Oooohh." He grins mockingly. "Gotta-- gotta say, you don't look it. Y-y-you're boring, cute, non-threatening. What do you do, work at a bank? Guess it makes sense, though, you walk around like you expect people to open doors for you."

You quirk an eyebrow at him, not wanting to betray how incensed you are. It's not so much the insults-- those were simply accurate observations. It's the insubordination, his smirking arrogance. How satisfying it would be to collar him and chain him to a post, make him sit there until he begged for your attention. Make him stroke himself to hardness, then tie his hands and put a cockring on him. Watch him get red and straining and desperate and-- you have to mentally shake yourself out of that fantasy. Your sudden lust for him surprises you. He seems entirely too rebellious and contrary to appease you, and you tell him this.

"Respect for autho--euurgh-rity, not my thing. Still think I could do it, though. How hard can it be? Put on some nipple clamps, get led around on a leash, let you step on my balls in high heels. That's about it, right?" He belches again, as if he's conclusively settled the discussion.

Oh, he is good. Breaking him could be a project. You close the distance at a saunter, looking him up and down. He grins and holds out his arms as if to say, come and get it. The problem is, he is entirely too self aware, you could read that as soon as he walked in the room. Manipulative and brilliant. You're already irritated, itching to put him in his place and show him why it's good for him. Your hand flexes, though your expression is carefully placid. "It's... more about pain and discipline," you offer. "To each party's mutual benefit. And not so many props."

He scoffs. "Pain and discipline? What is this, Marine Corps boot camp?"

You slap him, relishing the sounding crack of your palm against his cheek. "You'd be so lucky to scrub floors," you say, low and even. "Though, if I had to guess, I'd wager you like being on your hands and knees... don't you? Humiliated and used. Degrading yourself even though you'll be discarded." You touch your finger to his belt buckle. "Or is it the pain you prefer? I could take your belt, whip you with it. I could own you. I could choke you and burn you and fuck you and tell you to crawl back, and you would do it." You meet his eyes and smile. 

He stands stock still, jaw twitching. His eyes narrow. Not quite all his fight gone yet. He could be fun, with some training. He also, obviously, can't stand being ignored. Slapping him was the wrong thing to do, you realized as soon as you did it that he goaded you into it, and liked the pain. So you turn away.

"H-hey! Where are you going?"

"You want me to pay attention to you?" You pause at the doorway, not whirling around. Not matching his elevated emotion. "Obey. Stand still and do not speak. Simple, right? And you can do everything, so it should be easy for you."

You leave him there, not waiting to see if he moves. 

*  
Rick's masochism is not benign. It is full of cynicism and loathing, and he stumbles from one extreme of numbness to another. You learn this over the course of your association with him. When he chooses to be good, he is exemplary. Luckily, that is most of the time, as you have shown him that when he disobeys, he gets nothing from you. No attention, no satisfaction, no release. But then, he does mess up on occasion. Perhaps it’s innocent, perhaps calculated. Most of the time you can read him well enough to tell the difference. Mastering him is an exercise in balance and patience. 

He hasn't told his family that he sees you. You know this, because Beth is still friendly. You’re not exotic by his standards. Not alien. He’s guessed at your profession. He told you once, when he was being particularly mouthy, that he could find out if he wanted, but his own enjoyment hinges on the fantasy of it, the mystery that perhaps you really could overpower him, outfox him. You truly enjoyed whipping him that session, the fierce mixture of arousal and pride you got seeing the blood welling from lashes on his skin. His stoic defiance slowly breaking down as you ushered him to that place of pain/pleasure/pain, inflamed his senses so he didn’t know which was which. And his sobbing admission, towards the end, when he begged for release, that you’re in control because you are simply better.

"You're late," you observe when you hear the hum and pop of a portal opening and closing behind you. "And you know what I told you about portals, yet you expressly disobey me." You don't turn around from your armchair, don't get up. This is your study, your domain. He will come to you. Except he doesn't. You hear shuffling footsteps, wheezing breath. Rick coughs, choking out your name-- your first name, not your title. Annoyance piques at his blatant disrespect, but as you rise and turn, you see him stumble, fall to the floor. His hair is more disheveled than usual, his clothes are rent and bloodied. He clutches at a gash on his leg, swearing a blue streak.  
You rush to the bathroom to retrieve your first aid kit, then back to Rick. Internally, you're panicking, but you can’t show it. He isn't yours full-time. You know the boundaries. But your protectiveness extends to his general well-being, and something has to be seriously wrong for him to show up in this state. Sure, he submits for you, but because he benefits from it. He hates looking weak.

"H-here." He presses something into your hands, one of his bizarre inventions. Its function is completely inscrutable. "No police, no hospital" he mumbles before his eyes slip shut.

"Rick." You shake him. "No sleeping. Tell me what to do with this." Unresponsive, even when you threaten to call the police. There's only so much you can do with a little home first aid kit. You staunch the wound on his thigh, which is still welling blood sluggishly. Every couple of minutes you check his pulse, at his neck because it's too weak to feel on his wrist. Move on to the contusions on his face and chest. 

Even as skinny as he is, he's too heavy for you to move by yourself. You bring the bedding to him, surround him with pillows and blankets right there on the floor. The last thing you can think of to do is to leave a glass of water next to him. Then you turn your armchair so you can sit and watch and worry.

**  
"What happened?" In the half-day he's been unconscious, you migrated closer and closer to his side, until you gave up the pretense of your chair and kept vigil right next to him, kneeling. The irony of him bringing you to that position doesn’t escape you. 

Now he's awake, you've seen to feeding him, checked his injuries, changed the bandages. You can finally ask. He doesn't answer right away, and you feel a flash of irritation. "Tell me what happened, Rick."

He burps. "Bar fight."

"A bar fight," you say hollowly. "You look like a bombing victim."

"I think someone might've thrown a grenade. It's possible."

"A bar fight," you repeat. "Does that mean you were drinking before coming to see me?"

He groans, exasperated, like a child caught in a lie. 

"Yes?" You press him. "How many did you have?"

"That's-- that's not a useful question. Better measure the amount in liquid volume, not glasses. And the answer is, I don't know."

"Unacceptable," you hiss, heart falling. He has a lot to learn still, but you had believed you had made progress on this front. Mutual trust should be the foundation, not the end goal. You had respected his wishes to avoid the police and the hospital, over this?

"So what's my punishment?" He asks glibly.

"Punishment? You don’t merit my time. I have better things to do than waste my effort on a recalcitrant smartass sub." You let him hear the fury in your voice, but some of the disappointment and sadness mingles in too. "No. You get nothing. Take some time to think about what it is you really need from our arrangement."

"Y-y-you're not gonna whip me with my belt? Tie me up?" A note of desperation creeps into his voice. Fear in his eyes at being left alone. At being ignored.

"No. I'm leaving."

**  
He redeems himself, when you give him the chance. You come home one evening to find him naked, kneeling in the submissive’s pose outside the door of your study. He doesn’t speak, offers no explanation of how he got in until you ask him. 

“I, uh, I picked the lock on the front door. No portals.” 

“Stand,” you order. “Go in and wait by my chair.” 

“Yes, Master,” he acknowledges. Hearing him use your title gives you a little thrill. You’ve been looking forward to this, expecting that he would return, though not so soon. You lose track of time in the shower, and dawdle getting ready. This will have to be handled carefully. As gratified as you are that he’s back, this needs to be for him, not you. 

When you let yourself into your study, he is sitting just as you instructed, not quite serene. You note that he’s trying very hard not to fidget. His cock lies half hard already, heavy between his legs. If he is very well behaved you might take him in your mouth. He would taste and feel and sound so wonderful. Your mouth waters. Whose reward would that really be? The beginning of arousal sparks in you, but you center your focus. You must ensure he understands all of his blunders.

You come to stand in front of him so you can look down. “You know what you did wrong.”

“Yes.” 

“Tell me.”

He has his answer ready. A nonchalant litany of transgressions that make your stomach twist in anger. “I came by portal. Which means I didn’t knock. I was fully dressed. I called you by your first name. I was hammered.” 

He still doesn’t get it. “You put yourself in danger. You were disrespectful and you disobeyed the most basic rules.” You turn away from him and retrieve your riding crop from where it hangs on the wall next to your desk. With the crop tucked up under your arm, you lean over, tilt his chin up. “When you are in my presence, I am responsible for your well being. I control your pleasure, your pain. I own you.”

You straighten up and trail the leather tongue over his thighs. His lips part, his tongue darts out. His cock twitches. He knows not to look away from you, but when you brush the end of the crop on the underside of his balls, he huffs out a breath, looking down. Just what you were waiting for. You smack his face with your free hand. He knows what he needs to do, for this session to go any farther. You stare into his eyes coolly, willing him to say it. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages, rather sullenly. Making him apologize is perhaps one of the most tortuous things you can inflict on him. The fact that he actually said it, with minimal snark and argument, is a victory. Now that it’s out of the way...

"There is still the matter of your punishment." You don't miss the way his eyes light up. That excites him. "What do you think you deserve today?" He stays quiet. "That wasn't a rhetorical question." You grip his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. 

"I-I-I thought you said I wouldn’t be-- there would be no punishment."

You yank his hair again, eliciting a grunt of pain. “No backtalk or I’ll gag you with your dildo. How long do you think you can deepthroat, pet?” You raise your eyebrow, smirking down at him, knowing his internal struggle at the moment. Forbidding Rick Sanchez from snarky comments is like telling the sun not to rise.

"Use that brilliant mind of yours. Come up with something creative.”

“The cockring?” He asks hopefully. 

“The end goal of the punishment is not your orgasm. Selfish thing.” You let go of his hair and hit the outside of his leg with the crop. He startles with a yelp. Usually he has a chance to himself against the pain. “But… you _are_ a slut for punishment. If you crawled back here expecting a reward, it will be in the form of _my satisfaction_ with your submission. And you will take what I give you.” You hear your own voice go husky, not really on purpose, but the promise of seeing his skin turn red under your hand, and hearing him beg for release makes you hot with desire.

“Y-your hand, Master. Or a beating with the paddle.” He’s starting to sound a little desperate. His cock is fully erect, swollen, a bead of precum at the tip.

"Oh, no," you say. “You require a less forgiving touch than my hand, I think.” You stroke the crop across the lower part of his belly, just above his cock, deliberately not touching it. He moans, though stays still.

“Hands behind your back.” You step around and bind his wrists, making sure it’s tight, but not cutting off circulation. You guide him to the floor, face down, ass up. You reach down, squeeze one of his butt cheeks, then the other. “You have a cute little ass, for an old man. How many people did you let fuck it before you came to me?”

“I don’t remember, Master. Dozens? Hundreds, probably.” He can’t resist adding the last bit, you can hear the smug impertinence in his tone.

“That many?” You brush your fingers over the puckered skin between his cheeks. “Not only a slut for punishment. Just a slut in general.” You will get what you want out of him, even if he’s being contrary. Especially if he’s being contrary. There is nothing sweeter than his pitiful, needy whimper when he accepts your discipline. 

“The crop.” You hold it in front of his face. “How do you greet your crop, pet?”

He kisses it reverentially. 

“Good,” you purr, dragging it from his lips, along his jaw, over his back. He whimpers, shifting, restless with anticipation.

You raise your arm, swing the crop down to strike his ass. It impacts his skin with a satisfying crack; he raises his hips instead of recoiling, and that in itself delights you.

“Thaaat’s right, pet,” you praise him, landing more blows. “You need this. You crave this.” Despite knowing that it's good for him, it’s hard for Rick to relinquish control. But he is magnificent when he does, and you tell him as you lay welts on his ass and thighs.

“You were made for this.” You enjoy the whistle of the crop whipping through the air, and knowing that he’s aroused by the pain you’re giving him. “You take it so well, your ass was made to get spanked and whipped and fucked. Let me hear you, pet. What do you say?”

“Th-thank you, Master,” he chokes out.

“Louder.” You hit faster and harder, marvel at seeing the skin get red and splotchy and striped, at seeing the faint purple bruises already forming.

“Thank you, Master. I’m— I’m sorry! Thank you! I… unnh… I need this, I need it—” He breaks off, quivering, anticipating the next blow, which won’t come. His cock is harder than ever, thick and pendulous. 

“You’ve done well,” you say with sincere approval, caressing his raw skin. “I’m very pleased. Do you want to cum, Rick?” He whimpers when you say his name. At the intimacy of it. You set the riding crop aside and close your hand around his shaft.

“Yes, f-fffuck, I want…” 

You help him get up, maneuvering him to lie on your desk, his hands still bound underneath him. His rigid cock juts out, just as needy for attention as the rest of him.

“Do you think you’ve earned it?” You can’t help teasing him just a bit more. You grasp his erection, stroking his foreskin down and up over the bulbous head. Precum wells out and you lick it as it starts to roll down his skin.

A pleading groan claws from his throat. He begs, and you glimpse his flushed face and glistening eyes. “Yes, please, _please_ …”

Finally. You take his cock deep in your mouth, as far as you can all at once. His hips buck, you steady him with your free hand, remind him you’re still in control. It doesn’t take much to bring him the edge of orgasm; you bob your head and pump your hand in quick rhythm and soon he’s panting and mewling and flexing. 

He stills before he arches off the desk with a wanton cry— “oh _fuck_ , I’m gonna…” — and climaxes. He shoots his load in your mouth, you swallow most of it as you keep your hand and head moving, slow and deliberate. He’s shaking as he cums, so much, hot and bitter, you wonder if his balls are empty. You lift your mouth before he’s done, a long sticky rope of it hangs from your tongue to the tip of his cock— and there’s _more_. Some gets on his stomach, the last of it dribbles out on your hand. 

“Needy slut,” you murmur with affection. He’s done well, he’s entitled to hear it. Before unbinding his hands, you present your hand to his mouth. “Lick it clean.” He obeys without question, laving his own ejaculate from your fingers. You are beyond pleased. As you help him up, he seems punch-drunk, a little woozy. To your surprise, instead of asking permission to leave like he usually does to end the session, he arranges himself at the foot of your armchair and looks up at you expectantly. 

An hour or so passes in silence, with Rick in his place at your feet. His head rests against your leg and he is snoring softly. You adjust at one point, thinking that you need to make sure to take care of his skin after the beating— Rick thinks he’s indestructible but he’s still an old man. You have to be careful with him. He wakes from the movement. 

"Nurse?" He guesses, after requesting permission to speak. "Y-you-- if I peek in your closet am I gonna find scrubs?"

"If you peek in my closet I will hogtie you and keep you in there."

"Surgeon. Some-- some kind of doctor." Every so often, Rick goes on a kick of trying to guess your profession, and states one after another in quick succession, apparently trying to surprise you into accidentally confessing. You stroke his hair; he basks in the light of your gentle attention. 

"What about me says healthcare professional to you?" You always ask him for the explanation. They're usually entertaining, sometimes insulting enough to merit an extra spanking.

"When I came in by portal, you know, all roughed up. You didn't panic. You knew what to do, for the most part, but I'm not surprised. You probably spend most of your day fi--eeuurgh-- filling out charts and cleaning up shit, right?"

You give his hair a sharp jerk, making him crane his neck to look up at you. "Careful, pet. You haven't considered that maybe I don't even have a job. I'm forced to spend all my time tending to you."

He grins, but lapses silent, until he makes one more attempt. "Paramedic."

"No. You got it right the first time."

"Nurse? HAH! I knew it! Fuck yes, I'm awesome." He crows, until you stop him.

"Not that one. When we first met. I’m a bank teller."


	7. Young Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Young rick fluffy but also nsfw piece!??? Pleasseeeee
> 
> tags: young Rick, older Reader, teacher/student, fluffy

“Office hours start at 3:30,” you reply to the knocking on your door frame, not looking up from the papers you’re grading. “Come back in fifteen minutes.”

“This can’t wait.”

The familiar voice gets your attention. Rick Sanchez isn’t the best student in the cohort. He stutters often, seems to have trouble getting the sentence where he wants it to go. You know it’s not because he’s stupid. He’s brilliant, and his mouth has trouble keeping up with his mind. His thought process, if his written notes are any indication, is a disorganized catastrophe, but his results are nothing short of miraculous. This all makes it a little intimidating to be his graduate studies supervisor. You also happen to be sleeping with him. Bad judgment, but a good time. He’ll move on from you soon enough. He’s not that much younger than you, in the grand scheme of things, but you’re both at an age where it still makes a difference. You’re old enough that his attention is flattering, and also old enough to know better. His intensity makes rejecting him difficult. “Can’t it, Sanchez? Is your emergency the most pressing matter in my life right now?”

“My thing’s more important than whatever you’re doing there.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Fine, come in.” He’s already shutting the door behind him. You glance at him as he strolls to your desk. He has a restless, acute energy, a wicked smile and sharp features. He’s handsome now, but he’ll be gaunt when he’s older. He’s wearing slim, too-short blue jeans and a clashing blue shirt. Not that he doesn’t look good– he only pulls it off because he’s so tall and lanky. You can almost imagine him kicking and prancing around on stage during a rock concert or something. But his colorblind fashion choices only reinforce the stereotype that engineers dress poorly. You check the clock on your desk. “You have… twelve minutes. I’m keeping track because of last time.”

“No one saw anything.” He comes around your desk to read over your shoulder. “Huh. You marked that correct?”

“Partial credit, and are you sure this is how you want to spend your remaining 11 minutes, 20 seconds?”

“Stand up, Professor…if you would,” he murmurs in your ear. He’s told you outright that he doesn’t respect the title, or your position, and anytime he says the entire word, ‘professor’, he laces it with mocking acidity. And yet, you shiver at the desire his voice awakens in you, just like that. When you rise, he treats you to the same unabashed perusal you gave him minutes before, taking in your heels and blouse and pencil skirt. 

“Mmm” he runs his hands up and down your curves. “You know what I like.” So self-assured. He’s a presumptuous ass, but your body reacts differently than your brain; you feel a rush of heat to your core. 

“I dress like this to present myself professionally in the workplace, Sanchez, not appease your puerile lusts.” Your retort is ruined by your breath catching when he leans down to kiss your neck.

“Uh—uh huh.” His hand on your waist slides lower, squeezes your ass. “This blouse stretched over your tits, and the– the tight skirt showing off your ass. Fffuck– you look amazing. I wanna bend you over and–and…” His breath puffs warm against your skin. You smell a hint of whiskey. 

“Are you _drunk?_ ”

He chuckles. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re not!”

You blink, wondering whether it’s worth the effort to refute him, except then he lowers his lips to yours. The whiskey on his breath is heady, he passes his intoxication to you in the kiss, his tongue swipes into your mouth and you melt.  
Totally inappropriate, you know you shouldn’t be doing this, but that’s what you told yourself the first time Rick hung back after a lecture and bore you against the blackboard. It was your fault, you told yourself, for going along with it, and the chalk marks you realized were on your back, only after you got home. He did it again, though, two days later, growling that he wanted you, any way he could have you. For all the cold logic of the area of study you’re both involved in—chemical engineering— Rick is surprisingly passionate. A contradiction of clinical scientific fascination and boisterous enthusiasm.

Lucky you, his passion hasn’t diminished, months later. His mouth is hot and uncompromising, like he knows he’s right to want this. He bites at your bottom lip, a little rough, but you like it, you bite back and he makes a little noise and draws you tighter against his body. You can feel the hard shaft of his cock through layers of clothing, he grinds against you impatiently. Your hands go lower, grab his bulge through the rough denim, but it’s not enough, and the limited time is in the back of your mind. You undo his button and fly, amused to find that he’s commando under there. He breaks away with a moan when your hand touches his erection. 

“Nine minutes, Sanchez,” you remind him teasingly, laying your cheek to his chest and stroking him with no real urgency.

“Y-yeah, shit.” He tugs your skirt up over your hips, turns you around. You brace yourself with your hands flat on your desk. “What the– how the hell do you get into these things?” He squeezes your hip, pressing his erection against the cleft of your ass. You lift your hips in response, just as eager as he is.

“What, my pantyhose–?” You begin to ask, but then he finds purchase in the fine material, and violently rips a hole in it. Your indignant cry of his name comes out as a moan when the thick head of his cock nudges the slick opening of your pussy. He grips your ass cheeks in each long fingered hand, his thumbs spread you open, like plucking at the petals of a just-blooming flower.

_Damn it, Sanchez._ You want to be angry but time is running out, and at the moment you can’t ignore the primal need to be filled and fucked. Your labia feels full and swollen; as his cock pushes in you try consciously to relax at the large intrusion. He splits you open, inch by inch, your own arousal making him feel even thicker than he already is. That instinct young men have, to buck and rut with abandon, you can sense he has it too, of course he does, and the only thing holding him back is how tight you are. He growls about that in your ear, circling his hips a little with each thrust and hitting your g-spot. The give and take accelerates, faster, until he’s pumping in and out of you, hands at your waist, and your pleasure mounts swiftly.  
You hear footsteps pass outside in the hallway, Rick speeds up, leans just close enough so you can hear his voice, quiet and hoarse: “…You- ya know when I attend your classes all I can think about is fucking you, and-and watching your ass bounce on my dick. God damn, your ass is fantastic. Do you remember that time in the lab? The first time. When you made me sit on that chair and told me you had a long day and you just needed me and you—unnh— you lifted your skirt and just used me like a-a-a prop, you just fucked yourself on my dick like I wasn’t there, you weren’t even looking at me. Shit, I jacked off to that so many times, wishing you would talk to me again. That’s why I wanted you as my supervisor. This whole…school thing. Christ. I’m wasting my time here, you know it, I know it. The department can’t wait to get rid of me, those imbecilic–”

The footsteps come back, you hear shuffling right outside your door. Then someone knocks. Rick freezes.

“Do you think she’s here?” Asks one muffled voice.

“I dunno, the syllabus does say office hours are at 3:30.”

“Did you lock the door?” You whisper, while the students outside continue to debate the accuracy of the syllabus.

“Mmm… no.” He moves his hips again, pulling out and pushing in oh-so-slowly, bringing you back to your pleasure from the heart-stopping interruption. "Maybe I want everyone to know I’m fucking you. Everyone talks about it, your undergrad students, I mean. How do you think it would go down, if they found out?“ His fingers move to your clit and start persistent circles, at the same leisurely pace as his cock moving in you. “Christ, you’re wet, that barely took any time, huh? But I’m not gonna go any faster. Whoever’s waiting out there can just wait longer, and when I’m done with you they can come in and see your cheeks flushed and your clothes wrinkled” You moan in helpless frustration, louder than you mean to, and for one petrifying moment the voices outside the door pause.

Rick claps a hand over your mouth, but continues to speak, low and soft in your ear as he fucks you. “Don’t let them hear you, Professor. Don’t let them hear how much you love taking your student’s dick when you’re in your office, supposed to be working. You don’t want them to find out how much of a slut you are for a big dick stretching out your— your tight pussy.” Maddeningly slow and deliberate.

Each stroke in, each stroke out seems like it takes forever, this is languid fucking like you’re lovers together on a quiet afternoon. The only piece missing is tender intimacies, but everything else is right: hazy light streaming in through the curtains covering your office window, unhurried delight, the solid warmth of his body at your back. He strokes into you lazily, the pace is excruciating and wonderful. His fingers play at your clit, starting and stopping to keep you right at the edge of climax and not one step further. You wonder how much more he wants from you, how much he’s capable of. Sometimes he makes overtures to something more, but you won’t commit and he pretends disinterest.

He always gets talkative when he’s close, but he’s one of those people who loves the sound of his own voice. Would be pretentious if he wasn’t the smartest person you’ve ever met. “Y-y-you know, school’s a fucking waste of time, I’m only here because I need some piece of paper, I need you, Professor, to tell all your colleagues how brilliant I am, so I can get the lab access and grant money I need, but I– I, uh– fucking you is a reaalllll nice side benefit.”

You hardly believe that, and doubt he even believes it himself. If his hand weren’t covering your mouth, you would ask him why he’s really here, committed to a graduate program like this, but then he answers your unasked question.

“Shit, who am I kidding, I don’t need you or anyone else or-or anything. I’ll admit it, I’m putting in the time because you’re not the sideshow—side benefit, you’re the maaaain attraction, baby.” You clench around him, even with his iron control over your pleasure you won’t hold back much longer. He feels that and gives a low, breathy growl, but holds steady. “Yeaaah you’re a freak, don’t deny it. How wet you got for me, as soon as I stepped in here… fuck, I barely had to do anything, just turn you around and mount you like a bitch and you love it. You take it all, you like the idea of getting caught fucking your student and you… unnnh… you– oh, fuck you feel so–” he stutters, choking off a loud groan when you start to come in spite of his careful restraint.

Your orgasm pursues you gradually, like a slow rolling tide, this unstoppable force of nature that floods your senses until you’re drowning in ecstasy. Your whimpers are muffled by his hand as he strokes in, still so sure, unrelenting. And you squeeze his thick cock in powerful heat, spasming around him. Through your pulsing satisfaction you can distantly hear the students outside the door. He comes with you, burying his face at the back of your neck to silence himself, and pushing into you deeper, deeper. Then you feel a new slickness. He stops, holds you for a time, as if to make a confession in the fleeting, quiet privacy.

But he doesn’t, and you regain your bearing. He pulls out, you both clean up as quickly as possible. The students outside get discouraged and leave; you can see why, since it’s already a quarter to four.

“Well, shit.” You shove your skirt down over your ruined pantyhose.

He pouts, like he doesn’t see how it was his fault. “They were in my way.”

You pin him with your best no-nonsense teacher glare, which has little effect.

He crosses his arms. “You should come see a show with me tonight.”

“ _Tonight?_ ” You already have excuses lined up, some in the form of accusations against him, but you stop short. It sounds like he’s just asked you out, which is ridiculous.

He rolls his eyes, ready to dismiss the idea when he sees your initial reaction. “Never _mind_ —“

You whirl away, grab your purse and coat from the disused chair, and say over your shoulder. “You stay here, finish out the office hours. Until half past 5, that’s when I’ll be back. I’m going home to change, you can make up for this by treating me to dinner first, then we can go to the show.” As you storm out into the hallway, you glimpse Rick flop into your desk chair and prop his feet up on your papers. A contemplative smile steals across his features, his fingers tap some unknown rhythm on his thigh, he watches you for a moment, then turns away.


	8. Rick age reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Could I please request something where the female reader is younger (maybe late 20s) than Rick and he reverses his age to be the same, like in the Tiny Rick episode (but not tiny). With all the drama of being trapped in a younger body like in the episode too, but he does it for reader so it's angsty. Thank you!!!
> 
> tags: angsty angst, age reverse, nurse/patient

“Room 219.” Carol says, handing you a stack of files during shift turnover. “Careful, he’s a mean one.”

“I have another patient?”

“Mmm. Jeannie was with him, but she complained to Doctor Beatty, and you know her and—“ Carol clears her throat, stopping short of voicing the gossip everyone already knows. “Well, this one’s… difficult. Driven away Jeannie and three others already, he’s only been here a month or so..” She swivels in her chair to make a note on the whiteboard behind her. 

You resist rolling your eyes at the middle-aged nurse. She’s a compassionate, well-meaning person, and also your direct supervisor, so alienating her is a bad idea. You wish you had the guts to complain as freely as Jeannie does. You deserve to complain, but you won’t, even though you have more of a workload, and handle it better, but you’re not sleeping with the Doctor. Doctor Beatty shouldn’t even have any sway here, it’s not like he’s in charge of Cocoon Creek Assisted Living Facility, but he is the supervising physician, and an MD ranks higher than your measly RN. So, although you already have eleven patients to see, you’ll be seeing a twelfth from now on. 

“Don’t worry, he really doesn’t need that much.” Carol reads your apprehension anyway. “He’s too independent for this place, I don’t know why his family even put him here. He shouldn’t be here much longer. Stick with him and you might actually see him discharged.”

Discharged? For most other patients here, that means moved to hospice care or outright dead. Neither looks good. No family ever changes their mind about depositing their old people here. If this old guy is an asshole, he’s never going home. You sigh in acceptance. Twelve patients is a lot, but then again, it’s Saturday, so you have a sixteen hour shift to take care of everything. Sixteen hours to run around in every direction, sixteen hours to be on your feet, to duck out of sight to eat because every minute you’re being called– no. Stressing about it before it’s even started won’t help anything. This will be a good day. You will yourself to be positive. You tip your head up to bask in the fluorescent light. Look on the bright side. 

**

You make your rounds to three other patients you know will be easy check ups, skipping room 219 before you work up the energy you know you’ll need to deal with— you check the chart— Mr. Rick Sanchez. Age 70. You pause outside the door before knocking, flipping through his file. There’s not much in it, and that makes you a little sad. Usually when healthy people come to stay in a place like this, it’s because their families are tired of dealing with them. Then again, if he could live on his own, why wouldn’t he? No mobility problems noted, no diagnoses. Strangely, no medical history at all. The only notes are recent, must be from when he checked into the facility: _“patient refuses to share personal information with Doctor, to include name, age, medical history. Data obtained from family members, daughter Beth Smith, granddaughter Summer Smith, grandson Morty Smith. When asked to provide blood, urine, and stool samples, patient assented, but returned from the bathroom with only a semen sample. When recommended for psychiatric evaluation, patient threatened to strangle Doctor with stethoscope. Patient assessed as healthy, with a disruptive personality. Patient smells of alcohol, but denies being intoxicated. Attempts to administer breathalyzer agitated patient, who”_

The note stops mid-sentence. You flip the page, but there’s no continuation. What could have happened as a result of trying to breathalyze this uncooperative old man, that would leave the notes incomplete? You give a courtesy knock, though the door is ajar, then go in.

Age and decay and misery don’t faze you. You’re prepared for what you might see. A decrepit man with a withered soul, unwanted and abandoned. But that’s your second impression of Mr. Sanchez. The first is the smell. Urine and alcohol. 

Uh oh. Perhaps you’d taken too long before getting to him. He’s had an accident. You pull aside the curtain and introduce yourself. “Good morning Mr. Sanchez! I’m—“

He belches and interrupts you. “Yeah, I don’t care, Nurse Ratched. I’m not gonna learn your name, you’ll be gone in a week. I’m startin to– I’m getting pre—eeeurgh—tty good at that.”

You’ll have to search his room at some point to figure out where he’s hiding the liquor. If he’s found to have contraband and you don’t report it first, you’ll be in just as much trouble as him. Like it or not, this asshole is your responsibility now. Not asshole, you remind yourself to try to stay positive but it’s hard. Life is almost as monotonous for you as it is for some of the residents, who you’re supposed to call ‘valued member of society’– not anything unkind, like ‘geezer’ or ‘old fart’, and certainly not your first thought. Aside from tending to medical issues, you must maintain your bedside manner. Cheerful and supportive. The patients need to be reassured and shown that their lives can still have joy and meaning, even in this pastel nightmare. 

You square your shoulders and go to his bedside, where he is dressed in a hospital gown and tucked in under the covers. “That’s alright, Mr. Sanchez. If it’s just a week, I’ll take good care of you for a week. Then you’ll get someone else.” You consult his chart, but, again, very little to check. Nothing about blood pressure, weight, heart rate.

You glance at him over the top of your clipboard. You’re not sure if he looks his age or not—not that you’ve ever been very good at guessing that sort of thing. ‘Used up’ might be a charitable way to describe him. However he lived his life before landing here, it hadn’t involved treating himself very well. Bags under his eyes, a strong, almost hooked nose, thin mouth set in a scowl. His hair and brow are both light bluish grey, grizzled and unkempt. He looks like he would stab anyone who tried to take tweezers to his unibrow. Stab, and annihilate with devastating insults. 

He appraises you with a disdainful sneer. “Let me guess, you’re gonna come in here, play the saintly, patient nurse, right Clara Barton? You read my chart, you think you know me, you have a-a-a-a strategy. Gonna treat—gonna _heal_ me with kindness.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Clara Barton? That’s a deep cut reference. Are you a Civil War buff?”

“I’m an everything buff, I do— I’m a man of science. I can do your job better than you, because medicine is a bullshit field for people who think compassion can take the place of logic and numbers.”

It takes all of your effort to conceal an exasperated sigh. He’s going to be one of those patients. As a nurse, the distribution of work tends to break down so that 10% of the patients take up 90% of your time, but you may have to revise that. Make it 5-95. At least you’ll have some war stories to tell, whenever he kicks the bucket, or more likely, you give in and request to have him transferred to someone else. Still, a tiny part of you doesn’t want that. Something about the way he said you’d be gone in a week, because he’s getting pretty good at that.It’s more than a stubborn desire to prove him wrong. There was a challenge in his voice, but also a sadness, a bitterness. Like he knows he’s doing it and can’t help himself. That softens your heart a little– and what kind of nurse would you be if you couldn’t show empathy even for the most trying of patients?

So you’ll ignore his jibe and start with the simple questions. “Weight?”

“69.4 snikoo on planet Blappis.”

“Oh? How interesting. And what about on Earth?” What the hell is he talking about? Other planets?

“Welllll, my mass is 70 kilograms, and surface gravity on Blappis is 0.31g. Do the math.”

You purse your lips, feeling put on the spot. He smirks at your hesitation. “I’ll just put 180. Height?”

“1.951e+9 nanometers.” He waits a beat, and then rolls his eyes, like the conversion is the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m 6'4.”

You scribble that down. “Thank you, Mr. Sanchez. I know this is the tedious part, but once we’re done, maybe I could have one of the orderlies escort you to the lounge. Would you like that?”

“Fu–eeeuurgh–uuuck no.If I wanted to see old-timers feeling each other up and gumming wrinkly ball sacks I might as well stay here and watch Golden Girls, amirite?”

You chuckle in spite of yourself, and then he smiles and winks at you. You feel your cheeks redden. It’s not unusual for patients to flirt with you, but with most of them, it’s harmless fun, a way for the old guys to feel young again. This is different. It seems like he might actually mean it. You clear your throat and turn away from his raised eyebrow and knowing smirk. He is entirely too perceptive. “I’m going to take your blood pressure now.” You fasten the cuff around his arm, which is very skinny; you make a mental note to keep an eye on his weight and ensure he’s finishing all his meals. While the cuff inflates,you question him about his lifestyle and medical history.

“How do you usually sleep Mr Sanchez?”

“Uhhhh you mean like after I’ve wiped out a peaceful species? Pretty fucking well, I don’t have those moral hang ups everyone’s so hard for.”

Who _is_ this guy? “Umm, well that’s fine. I meant, sleep schedule. How long you usually sleep, typical bedtime, that kind of thing.” The panel on the blood pressure machine beeps, cutting off whatever asinine answer he was about to give. You look over to check. “That’s odd.” You double check the cuff placement. “Did this feel like it inflated around your arm at all?” You palpate the skin on his arm. Feels warm, normal. Maybe the machine is broken. 

“Mhmm. Something wrong?”

“Ahhh… I’m not sure. Do you have a history of low blood pressure?”

Suddenly he gets a shifty look. “N-no. How should I know?… Out of curiosity, do you happen to know if a cybernetic arm would interfere with that thing? Cause an inaccurate measurement?”

“Cybernetic arm?” You laugh. “I guess. I would assume that kind of thing would be in your medical history, if you had one.”

He jerks his arm away and snaps at you. “Fine, you want my medical history? When I was 39 I broke every bone in my body simultaneously when I was exposed to a sonic blast. One time I thought I contracted an alien STD, but it turned out I had just spilled blacklight paint on my dick at a nude rave. My blood alcohol content has been at least .04 for the past, oh, 20 years? Oh, and I just shit myself so… get on that.”

_I am a bastion of serenity_ , you tell yourself, though you wish you could throw your clipboard on the floor and yell at him…or just walk away. But you won’t. No matter how difficult he is, you resolve to stay calm. Some patients are mentally unstable, they lash out for attention any way they can. Most other nurses you know have had to deal with an Angry Pooper. Nothing you can’t handle. You put on your cheerful face. “No problem, Mr. Sanchez. Accidents happen. I’ll just call the orderlies, and we’ll get you cleaned up.” 

**  
The following day is hardly better. He keeps pressing the call button at just the wrong time, over and over. About seven hours into your shift, after you keep showing up, but it’s only minor things he needs, you finally go in and he reveals that he built a robot to press the call button for him, and that he programmed the robot to press the button as soon as it detects that you’ve sat down to take a break. When you ask him how it knows where you are and what you’re doing, he says he can’t tell you, because it’s a trade secret.

Day three is unremarkable, only because he’s asleep when you come in to check on him.

Day four he refuses to take the medicine prescribed to him, and in the course of searching his room for places he might be hiding unwanted pills, you discover a stash of opioids. By his own (infuriatingly nonchalant) admission, he’s been scamming them not only from other patients, but from some of the nurses as well, and shouts that you’re a narc when you confiscate them. You’re baffled when blood and urine tests reveal no traces of the drugs in his system, however, and he exhibits no withdrawal symptoms. Another oddity you file away to ask him about, along with his bizarre comments about other planets, alien STDs, his ability to construct a robot out of seemingly nothing, and that cybernetic arm.

Day five features the return of the call button robot, which is unfortunate, because you are really not in the mood, and struggling not to let on.

“Yes, Mr. Sanchez?” You pull the curtain aside, and find him not in bed, as he usually is, but sitting in his gown in the chair by the window.

“You should update my file. I’m 71 now.” He raises a matte silver flask to his lips and takes a long pull, then belches. Drool dribbles down his chin, apparently not bothering him, because he doesn’t wipe it away.

“What the— you can’t have liquor with your medication!” You hiss, crossing the room to snatch the flask away from him. He’s too fast.

“Hah! That’s what you think! I’m not taking my medication.”

You want to strangle him and tear your hair out. Better yet, tear his hair out. “I thought we solved that, Mr. Sanchez!” There had been progress, or so you thought. “Are the pills too hard to swallow? You know if you need more water you can always call one of the orderlies. Or have your robot do it.”

He side-eyes you, not amused. “Nope.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Just didn’t want to.”

A line from a movie pops into your head, and in the moment, saying it seems better than the alternative, which is letting him see your frustration. “If Mr. Sanchez does not want to take his medication orally, I’m sure that we can arrange for him to take it some other way.”

That gets a smile. He takes another drink, stands up, towering over you and also suddenly very close. "I always did admire that manipulative bitch. Hated her, but admired her. Nurse Ratched, I mean.“ He looks you up and down, with an expression you haven’t seen on him before: desire. No, not something so innocent. Lust. “That–eeeurgh– that nurse’s outfit though, with the little hat, and her hair like devil horns. Mmm, that does it for me, reaaaalll, uh, real sexy. So what are my options if oral is off the table?” He puts an indecent twist on the word.

“I-I’ll have to check with Doctor Beatty.” The blush creeps up on you at his boldness, and you quickly change the subject. “You said you’re 71 now? As of today?” Another puzzle piece to fill in on his chart.

He crosses his arms. “If you try to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ I’m gonna file a-an abuse of elders report on you. I’ll tell them how I was so helpless when the hot young nurse couldn’t keep her hands off me. That’s what I did with– what’s her name. Olga?"

"Olga is 56,” you say, mentally kicking yourself for being flattered to be called young and hot, when you’re a couple years shy of thirty. You don’t know which is worse, that he’s flirting with you or that you’re reacting to it. “She had to take a leave of absence.” No one had realized it was because this sociopath accused her of molesting him.

“So I traded in for a younger model.” He tells you like he’s proud of the ruin he’s caused, as he steps towards you, backing you into the corner. “You think that–that other one, Jeannie, you think she got out of this because of the Doctor? No! It was fucking me! I planned it all. If you think I’m gonna stay in a place like this and just sit around bored and-and– this is small time, it’s like a– like a game and you’re all the little pieces. It took me one week to figure out how to run this shithole and now it’s _mine._ ” Even from in here, this small environment, he gleefully wields power.

Something in you snaps– the insinuation that you would take advantage of one of your patients makes your blood boil. You’ve seen and heard about it too many times to not take it seriously. And now he thinks he can intimidate you and make you cower in a corner. “You’re the abusive one here! You- you’re mean and cranky and demanding and manipulative and you like making other people feel small. But you know what? That’s fine. I have other patients to deal with who have real problems, I have a job to do and you are part of that. And believe it or not, you take up a proportionately small amount of my time. So do what you want. I’ll be here, holding your nose shut to make you take your pills, and making sure you don’t drink yourself to death five years too early.“ You are jabbing his chest with your index finger, nearly shouting. You lower your voice. "So, yes, whatever I do could be playing right into your grand plan, but I am going to do my job, which is to take care of you. You can do what you want.”

He looks bemused. “Oh. That went— I thought you were going somewhere else with that. Thought you were building up to a nice, hearty ‘I don’t give a shit’.”

“No.” You say firmly, wishing you actually had thought to end your tirade on that satisfying note, but that would be stooping to his level. “But I should have.” You realize you’re still poking at his chest, and the stress and ridiculousness of it all takes hold. You let one giggle through. “I wish I had.”

He snorts at your admission. “I-oh yeah? Nice bedside manner, Florence Nightingale. By the way, great career choice, doing– being a nurse. Did you choose it because it’s insipid and pedestrian, or could you just not hack it as a doctor?”

“Neither, I just love taking people’s rectal temperatures,” You deadpan.

“I-is that right?” His brow raises. “Can I– is that an option for my medication?” He asks innocently. You can see he’s trying not to smile.

“No, Mr. Sanchez.” You fear that if you start laughing now you won’t be able to stop.

“Y-you know, it’s my f– like I always say, anyone who puts a finger up my butt can call me Rick.”

You bite your lip, but can’t stop from smiling, and from there a whole fountain of laughter bubbles up. Just like that, the tension is broken. He opens his flask and offers it to you, and when you accept it, he gives you a cheeky grin. No one should enjoy being such a bad influence, you think, meeting his eye as you take another sip. The alcohol burns your throat, but the sultry warmth you feel at his expression comes from a very different source indeed. “Alright, then. Well. Happy birthday, Rick.”

**  
From then on, Rick (when you remember to call him that) is more cooperative, though not always in a good mood. It doesn’t matter. One week turns into two, then three. One Sunday morning you glance at the bland floral calendar Carol keeps at her desk and realize you’ve had him as a patient for nearly a month. It hasn’t exactly been a quiet month, due to Rick causing mischief among the other patients, or just generally acting out for attention. You find that you don’t mind so much, though he only ever seems to want _your_ attention.

And he is an outrageous flirt, when he wants something from you. It’s nothing new, so you take Rick’s bawdy jokes and suggestive looks in stride, assuming he’s bored and lonely. The loneliness worries you. You catch it peripherally, he hides it so well when you’re with him, but as soon as you tell him you have to go, do rounds and all your other duties, he scowls. And when you turn to leave and he thinks you can’t see him, his brightness fades, he slumps in his chair and pulls out his flask.

He refuses to talk about his family, even just for medical history purposes. The few times you’ve ventured to ask, he shuts you down with scathing insults and screeds about how family is a ‘bogus social construct’. So you stick to safer topics, like science, and you bring him his lunch even though that’s supposed to be the orderlies’ job. You cackle at his grossly inappropriate jokes, after making sure the door is shut, and sneak him a bottle of good scotch as a belated birthday present, and yearn to ask one of the very first questions you had about him: why is he here?

Many of the questions he consents to have fascinating answers. When you bring up the cybernetic arm, promising not to include it in his medical history, he holds it out and shows you. Gears and panels unfold in a mechanical whir, his arm transforms into what appears to be an awesome, futuristic cannon… except there’s a little red suction cup dart on the end. Still, you applaud enthusiastically when he shoot the dart at a cup across the room and retrieves it. He also relishes telling you fantastical stories about other dimensions, though warns you, after telling you about his portal gun, “don’t ask me to take you on some- some magical mystical adventure quest.”

“Okay, I won’t, but why not?” You think it’s fair to know.

“Ass, gas, or grass, baby. Nobody rides for free.”

“Well, I ate some pretty spicy Mexican food earlier, I could probably rip a few in a couple hours. Would that count?”

Rick blinks, then bursts out laughing. “N– are you asking if, in exchange for farting, I would take you on a little sight-seeing trip? A-as tempting as that is, I’ll pass. But if you’ve got weed orrrrr you, know, feel like putting out…”

Occasionally he matches your curiosity with prying questions of his own, again, not uncommon for some of the more isolated patients to want to know. You indulge him more than most, which you know you shouldn’t do, but it diverts him when he could otherwise be plotting a repeat of the disaster he inflicted on the Cocoon Creek Bingo Tournament.

“So I bet– a pretty thing like you, gotta– gotta have a boyfriend, huh? Boyfriend, gi–eeuurgh–irlfriend. Some kinda friend.”

“No I don’t, Mr. Sanchez.” That’s usually the extent of it. Not today. Long-simmering curiosity makes you brave, you ask him the same question.

He straight up denies it, even as you prod him for information, knowing you’re not being particularly subtle. “Of course, there has to be someone.” You are sincere. You truly believe that, and at last he relents, though not how you’d hoped.

“Spare me the platitudes. Look at me. You’ve seen me— you’ve— almost everything. My wrinkly old ass, my-my— I’d have a beer gut if I could ever gain weight.” He runs a hand through his hair, then rubs his bald spot. “My body’s fucking deteriorating, and I can’t stop it. Not really, I know science, I thought I could, you know, with clones and consciousness transfer. And failing that, cybernetic replacements for everything. But at what point am I still…” He trails off. “What happens when my mind breaks down? Where I just can’t fucking _think_ anymore? When I’m a drooling moron taking up space and shitting myself and I can’t even enjoy making people clean up after me.”

“Not everyone gets dementia.”

“Oh, fucking wonderful, so I can be completely aware as my body fails, trapping me in a mummified husk. Hey— wanna suicide pact? It’s not like you even have anything to live for."

"Rick.” You put a hand on his forearm, but take it away when he looks at you like you’ve just presented him with a severed head. This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned killing himself, though he always makes it sound like a pessimistic joke. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Yes, it’s true that your body might change, but there will always be people around to take care of you. I’ll be here for you.”

“Really, you will? Because my own– my whole family hates me, they don’t want me around, so they put me here and they– and forgot about me.”

You look away, deeply uncomfortable, but Rick grabs your shoulders and forces your attention back to him. “Here. Over h-look at me. You– you aaaaalways want a story about some stupid world I visited, like it’s some once in a lifetime thing, and you gotta –eeeurggh– stop– don’t live vicariously through me or you’re gonna spend thirty years working here a-and come in one day as a resident instead of a nurse.”

“That’s not a very good story.” But the cold fatalism of it settles in your stomach. You fear he’s right.

“I’m not done!” He snarls, spittle flecking your cheek. “I’ve been to planets where whole societies just bury their old people when they get too old. Just stick ‘em in the sand, up to their necks, leave them there to dry up and die. And another place, they stop talking to them because they think they’re ghosts and it’s forbidden to disturb the supernatural. S-so the old people just walk around silently and everyone pretends not to see them. Pretty grim, huh?”

You nod. “Do you think… do you think if you reached out to your family, and told them you’d like them to visit… would they come?” It’s risky to ask, but you’re worried that he’s becoming too dependent on you.

He shrugs, as if seeing the people who forsook him would be nothing. You’re surprised he didn’t snap at you for the question. When he meets your eyes, he is more unguarded than you’ve ever seen him. All the compressed emotions, the years of his life he flaunts and despises, all there. And affection too, a kernel of softness that he tries to keep secret. He asks if you want to see pictures of his grandkids, and scoots over on his bed to make room for you. You sit stiffly at first; the bed is narrow with both of you leaning against the headboard, but he gets impatient and pulls you against his shoulder. He flips through his camera roll, rambling in his rough voice, bold enough with his arm draped over your shoulder to play with a lock of your hair, and joke that if the two of you ever dated people might think he had a third grandkid. He drinks and drinks (you’ve long since given up trying to curtail that bad habit) and when he falls asleep his head tilts down to your shoulder. You let him drool on you and snore in your ear, get a little drowsy yourself, and only leave when you get a call to check on another patient.

**  
The next time you see him, he seems to have recovered his old, crotchety self. You can tell, because he’s down to about three fingers left of the good scotch you gave him, and inclined to share. It’s half past eight in the evening, your shift is over in an hour. He uncorks the bottle, even goes so far as to pour a measure into a real glass– not the disposable plastic ones stacked next to the water pitcher. You can’t accept it. He rolls his eyes, “laaaame,” tosses it back like a cheap shot. “If you we–eeurgh–ren’t cute– alright, chance to redeem yourself. Most inappropriate thing you’ve done at work. A-and I’m talking, like, if you were caught, being fired would be low on the list of concerns.”

“Hmm… well, I–” you fidget, running through a rather short list of rebellions.

“And don’t even– don’t try to make something up, or-or make it less embarrassing.”

You look at the nearly empty bottle. “Alright. Well, the first one I can think of wasn’t at work, but it was when I was fourteen, and I was at Girl Scouts sleepaway camp. We were on a special trip out in town, at the beach, and my friends and I met some boys, but didn’t have time to talk to them. So then during the night we snuck out to go find them, and when we came back the counselors caught us.”

He waits, uncharacteristically patient, then realizes that you’re done. “That’s the story? That’s it? W-w-w-what about the boys? There’s a whole part missing, there, you see the problem, right?”

“Well, I mean, that’s not the point. We didn’t even find them, so we got busted and kicked out of camp for nothing.”

Rick grimaces. “That was terrible. Try again. And if you’re gonna confide in me about your apparently tragic attempts to lose your virginity, stick with the stories where you’re over eighteen.”

“Fine. Why don’t you tell me one of yours, then. Give me an idea of what kind of story you meant.”

It’s like he’s been waiting for you to ask. He rubs his hands together, then tips the rest of the bottle into his mouth. “Soooo, I’ve mentioned before that there are infinite dimensions, with infinite me’s. Well, about once a year, some of the… uh… fun ones like to get together for a Rick-union. No Mo– no one else.” He coughs. “Just me, everywhere, and all the booze, weed, k-lax you could want. Well, one year, the party planning committee thought it would be a good idea to do a 'Hawaiian’ theme–” he sneers “–but the flowers they used for decoration turned out to contain a po—eeerugh—powerful aphrodisiac.”

“Sex pollen?” You’re about to say you thought that was only in sci-fi, but then, his whole life is sci-fi.

“Yep. Aaaaand from there, it was pretty much an Eyes Wide Shut type of situation, only with no attractive women.”

“Wow. Mr. Sanchez, I’m not at all surprised. I know you’re very confident, obsessed with yourself, even, and you just confirmed it. Literally sucking your own dick.”

“Mhmm, a-a-and I gotta say, it tasted great!”

You blush at the mental image that supplies. Not like you haven’t wondered about him before. His explicit comments and flirting make it hard not to, but the frankness of this conversation makes you shift in your seat. “I hooked up with one of my professors in college.”

Rick turns from where he’s rummaging through his organizational disaster of a closet, coming away with another bottle. “Finally, something good.” He pulls up a second chair and sits across from you by the window instead of lying back down.

_Good_ , you think. He’d been complaining that his back ached, but refusing to take your advice that he shouldn’t spend so much time lying down. As soon as you stop nagging him about something, he might decide to do it.

He drinks straight from the bottle. “A-again, with the details thing. Or is that the extent of it? Unremarkable sex with a faceless bureaucratic peon? I’m not saying– don’t get me wrong, I– teaching is a noble profession. I believe people who can teach effectively are- are– they’re worth something.” He launches into a brief rant about the deficiencies of the education establishment, then remembers that he wants a juicy confession from you.

“Umm, well, like I said, we hooked up, and it was more than once. Probably the most risky was when we did it in the lecture hall. Not, you know, all the way–”

“He didn’t fuck you?”

“She.”

His unibrow goes up, part interest, part amusement, part wondering if he’s been hitting on you futilely all this time.

His satisfying reaction spurs you to continue. “She, umm, she ate me out right at the front of the lecture hall, when it was empty, I was sitting up on the big desk and I could barely enjoy it, I was so worried someone was going to come in. She liked teasing me during lectures, she was really beautiful. I felt so lucky to be– to know her like that.”

Rick makes a 'hmm’, having gone quiet, watching you. The intensity of his focus makes you squirm, and want to keep going at the same time. You cross your legs, squeezing them together. “One time– well, I should explain. She liked texting me instructions. You know, what to- to masturbate with, and how long, and I would do that. Sometimes what to wear to class. One time, she told me to–” you check your watch. It’s past the end of your shift, only a few minutes. You gesture for the bottle, he hands it to you. After you drink, you continue. “Two hours before o-chem, she texted me that she wanted me to take a long shower and play with my ass. I wasn’t allowed to… touch myself anywhere else, and I couldn’t come, not that I can without–” your clear your throat.  
Y-you know, for a nurse you’re really prude when it comes to describing sex."

” _Anyway_ , I did as she told me, She said to use a dildo, get comfortable on the bed when I got out of the shower, so I did. The whole time I thought, she’s going to tell me any time now, that I can get it over with, she knows I’m coming to her class in half an hour, then twenty minutes, and finally she texts me as I’m getting dressed, 'put your buttplug in, and a skirt, and sit in the front row’. I was so self conscious the entire bus ride, that someone would see it somehow, someone would know, and that they could smell me. I mean, I was so wet I could feel my l–“ You cut yourself off, realizing how much you’ve revealed, and worse, how aroused you are.

"You could feel your pussy lips sliding, l-like rubbing against each other.” He finishes, his voice low. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, sending your mind spiraling. Like he wants to taste you. You nod, paralyzed to continue, until he prompts you. “T-then what? Y-you– did you make it through class? Bet you couldn’t concentrate, huh? You sat there, squirming in your seat… kinda like you’re doing now.”

You feel aflame, with arousal, with embarrassment. Exposed. There are two ways to respond, and at the moment you don’t want to leave, so you go forward. “She didn’t look at me once the entire lecture, and by the end of class I was too afraid to get up until everyone else had left because I was sure I had left a-a– some kind of wet spot.” The memory is mortifying, but in a way, saying it out loud helps mitigate the feeling. It isn’t your shameful secret anymore if you share it. “From there, we went back to her office. She drove me so I didn’t have to take the bus, and it felt like the longest car ride of my life. I had never been– I’d never just sat with her somewhere quietly, it was always either discussing classwork or…” You shake your head. No need for him to know about your unrequited crush. “In her office, her husband was there waiting for us. She locked the door and closed the blinds. Made me lean over her desk with my skirt up, watch them make out and- and have sex. I hadn’t met him before, but he was cute. Warmer than she was. She told him she was going to let him fuck me next, anywhere he wanted, and I was so, so ready to cum, when he took the plug out and fucked my ass I was…”

You trail off, half expecting Rick to interject with a lascivious 'mmm’, like the pervy grandpa you know he is, but he is silent, at rapt attention. 

“I realized it wasn’t me she liked, it wasn’t being clandestine. It was telling people what to do, but even after I realized that, all I can remember thinking is how badly I wanted to be able to see her, to look her in the eyes.” You stand up, step towards him even though sitting down your knees were almost touching. You lean down, bracing yourself on the arms of his chair, ignoring all the alarm bells of rationality. His head tilts up, watching you with a hunger and a sort of entitlement. You kiss him anyway. His lips are thin, dry, a little chapped. He reeks of whiskey, so powerfully intoxicating you think you might get really drunk kissing him. His lips part and his tongue sweeps into your mouth; at the same time his long, bony arms wrap around you and pull you in. Here is his flame, a secret, wild life. Passions, joyful and agonizing, that all his stories only hint at. He groans into your mouth, and all of a sudden the rip current threatens to sweep you away. You wiggle in his lap, can feel his hard cock pressing at your hip. That, of all things, restores you to reason. You break off the kiss, sliding off his lap ungracefully. 

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” You ache with un-sated need, your lips tingling and your pussy swollen. You should go home while you can and take care of this yourself. As it is, you’ll already have to request to transfer him to another nurse.

“W-wait, don’t– don’t go. I’ll be right back.” He stands up, brushes past you, shuts himself in the bathroom. You idle, wondering whether you should ignore him and leave anyway. When he steps out a moment later, part of you wishes you had.

“Rick…” you draw away. It is him, you’re sure— he carries himself the same way, slouching like his back hurts, but he’s young. His age lines are gone, for the most part. His skin is tight and smooth, his hair shorter, still disheveled but more presentable. The only thing that hasn’t changed is his build, though even that is different, when you look closer. A little more filled out, lithe instead of just skinny. He’s as young as you.

“Welllll? Thoughts?” He stumbles and slurs. This is not good. You need to put him to bed before you leave. If anyone else finds him like this the fallout would be catastrophic.

“What the hell did you do?” You stand still, not trusting anything other than the visceral shock of seeing a man erase forty years from his face.

He drops his arms, like he was expecting you to run over and jump into them out of excitement. “J-just a little miracle serum, baby. Water of—of— the gift of life! Four fish of youth!”

You tilt your head. _Four fish?_ “Fountain of youth?”

“Hellll yeah! Check it– all my– everything’s still in the same place! Just looks better. Now we can– you could take me to the movies and not have to worry that the ticket lady wants to give your date a senior discount.”

“You did this because you don’t want to feel awkward at the movie theater?” Or because he doesn’t want to embarrass you? “Rick, your age isn’t– it was never an issue for me. Look around you. Look where I work!”

His shoulder slump. “Welllll shit. I’m– I can’t. I’m stuck like this. But while I am, wanna take it for a test drive?”

“Are you kidding?” You say, more sharply than you intend. “I’m… no. I can’t! And I’ve been drinking at work… oh, god. I need to go home. And you— Rick, you look great but you don’t belong here.” This little place, Cocoon Creek, is too small for a person like him. Too limited to contain all his scheming and adventuring.

He looks at you like a kicked puppy, and you can see he really doesn’t quite understand. “Y-you’re leaving?”

“Rick… you do realize that you’re eons ahead of me in life experience… de-aging yourself isn’t going to change that."

His mood turns like a fired doused. "Fine, fuck off then. Should have known you couldn’t handle it, but what should I expect from someone who’s content to be—eeeurgh— be mediocre?” During your stunned silence he sits down again. “Seriously, get the hell out, I-I-I got some– that story of yours got me real fucking hard so now I gotta rub one out, and you seem like you don’t wanna participate.”

“Mr. Sanchez, I’m going to tell you this because I doubt your family and friends ever will, and I know how you feel about therapy. I know you’re smart, and you have autism and depression, and you can’t take your medicine unless you wash it down with alcohol, but you can’t keep using those as excuses for being a jerk! You haven’t told me exactly what happened with your family, and I don’t need to know, but I’m guessing you have a history of driving away people you care about and finding every excuse for why it happened, except the real reason.” You pull short of saying that he’s a selfish, narcissistic asshole, although he probably needs to hear that, too. “There are plenty of intelligent, autistic, depressed alcoholics who are still kind and surrounded by friends and family who love them…”

He glares at you. “You– are you done? I’m unzipping now. You sure you don’t wanna flash me some beaver? Huh?! H-hey, Nurse Ratched!”

You turn and stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind you. You put in your request to have him transferred to another nurse. The next day, he’s gone.

**  
It’s strange. Before you got Rick as a patient, your daily routine at work and out of it was boring. You told yourself it wasn’t meaningless, but it started to feel like you were standing in sand, letting the water come further and further up while you swallow brine.Then Rick came along, insisting that nothing mattered and he was ready to die, and suddenly it seemed like you could tolerate everything as long as you got to see him. Checking on him, sitting and laughing and talking with him had become part of the very fabric of your days, as much as sleeping and brushing your teeth.

And somehow you still aren’t prepared for how much you miss him, how empty your days feel. You slog through the hours one at a time, replaying the disastrous implosion of a conversation. Real smart. Make a big speech about how he drives people away, only to end up… driving him away. But then you imagine what he’d say about you moping and feeling sorry for yourself: “You want sympathy, you can find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.”

You think about tracking him down, but then what would you say? You don’t know what you want to say, only what you want to do, which is to kiss him again and not stop. In the meantime you compromise to drudgery. Exactly what he warned you about. It wears you down smooth, like a river rock, tumbled, changed and unable to change. You never consider quitting. You did when he was there. It seemed like an opportunity, a real chance to get away.

A second chance comes in the form of the call-button robot, which you unearth one afternoon in the trunk of your car. You don’t remember putting it there, or ever taking it. And— you really shouldn’t be surprised, given that it’s one of Rick’s inventions— when you press a button on it, you’re transported…

To a suburban living room, where a familiar figure is slouched in an armchair, watching TV. Shock is, weirdly, one emotion you can’t find, even as you stand awkwardly to the side of the TV set.

“Mr. Sanchez– Rick.” You begin the speech you had refined and practiced in your head and never expected to actually deliver. He glares at you and turns up the volume to drown you out. You turn the set off and stand in front of it, crossing your arms.  
“I’m not here to ask you to come back. But please, please let someone into your life. It doesn’t have to be me. I wouldn’t mind. And I want you to know that I like you the way you are–”

Rick interrupts you with a theatrical groan. “OOOOOOKay, I’m just– I’m gonna stop you right there. Like you the way you are, or because of your faults and not in spite of them, blah blah blah. Yeah, I’ve– eeurgh– I’ve heard enough. You can go.”

“But I’m not… that’s not what I’m trying to say!”

“Uh huh.” He swigs from a bottle of probably vodka. “Then what are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know!” All your slick, practiced transitions jumble in your head, and your placating points that it’s okay to need other people’s help, and that he’s not being judged.

He looks distinctly uncomfortable at your outburst. “L-look, here’s some advice. Don’t try to fix me. I’m the kind of mess the can’t be cleaned up.” Introspection tastes wrong coming from Rick. Too honest, too bare. But he keeps going anyway, before you can think of how to reply. “I know I shouldn’t want– it’s selfish. I’ve never been anything better. You shouldn’t be burdened with–” he gestures vaguely “–all this, when all I do is wreck everything.”

You sniffle and turn away, not quick enough. It’s almost reassuring to think that he’s fumbling with simple communication just as much as you are.

"Oh? Are you– are you _crying?_ ” He sneers, incredulous. Of course, then he goes and acts like _that._ “You’re crying! What the fuck do you think that’s gonna accomplish? Cause you wanna help me, is that it? Have you ever asked yourself where that feeling comes from? The compulsion to heal people? Compleeeetely altruistic, right? A-am I supposed to believe that bullshit? You do this because it makes you feel better about your incompetence, your insignificance.

"So why should you– why should I let you do that? When all I want to do is ruin you. That’s the best use I can think of for a— for you. Fuck you and ruin you and see every good thing about you corrupted because it’s fun. Because I don’t just want you to give in, I want everything and I want for everyone else to have nothing of you. I-i-is that– do you understand now?”

You nod, wipe your eyes. He sits there for a while, ignoring you and drinking. You stand, thinking you might leave. This could be the last time to see him. You shove away uncharitable thoughts, though he deserves every shred of contempt you can muster. He is ornery and foul and arrogant. Not vain, though. He didn’t care how he looked, he did all that for you, in a twisted way.

He grumbles something about not letting the door hit you on the way out. Instead, feeling a little spiteful, and a little empathetic, you come around the back of his chair. His forehead is furrowed, a deep crease that accentuates his unibrow and the bags under his eyes. He regards you with suspicion, craning his neck around, but you brush his hair back from his crown, smoothing it with your palm. It’s wiry and coarse and refuses to lay flat. He might be about to tell you to stop, but you touch each middle finger to his temples and start massaging small circles there. He relaxes incrementally, leans his head back. You continue for what feels like a long time until he speaks.

“My skull hurt when I met you,” he whispers. His eyes are closed, as if in confession. “I thought it was the lights, or the m-medication, or literally anything else, but then it was just… you. So fucking corny, I can’t stand it. Like I didn’t trust being happy because of-of anything other than…” He burps softly. “You made me realize how desperately awful I am. I-I know I’m great, but the negativity and-and-and cynicism just– I can’t cope any other way. I can’t communicate. And once you gave me that I couldn’t let you go. Because I realized that, but I’m– I can’t stop being that way. I’m too fucking old to change, and everyone around me eventually gets sick of my bullshit and leaves, or worse, hangs around and lets it infest them too.” He sighs deeply. Your fingers continue the massage, running through his hair, moving in arcs the way you know feels good for you. 

Maybe he’s right, you tell him, and watch the emotion play out on his face, though he is a poor vessel for it. Humor carried to sadness carried to resignation in completion, though he overflows, about to break. His eyes are still closed. It’s not what he wanted to hear. You hold his head in your hands and bend to kiss him, to take his soul through his mouth.

When he feels your lips he jerks in surprise, but then pulls you down to the murky depths, a chaotic tangle of limbs, and his mouth searching and desperate. Like a drowning man gasping for air, he kisses you, seeming not to care if it’s your lips, or your neck, your jaw… further down, he moves, bearing you to the floor. You respond with acceptance, knowing you can’t absolve him for real or imagined sins. You open for him, roll with him, take his hand and guide him.


	9. Shy Kinky reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Rick with a shy reader who’s actually into really kinky shit? Like full blown wants him to tie her down and fucking ruin her, cover her in bites, tease her to the point of begging, spank her. Heck, maybe even blindfold her while he does it all. It can be as long or short as you see fit ;)
> 
> tags: bondage, D/s dynamic, biting, teasing, spanking, blindfold, aftercare

“However I want?” Rick’s smile is predatory, cold. “Y-y-you think you know me? Think, oh, 'I want a little excitement, wanna _spice it up_ , get a little kinky'. So you come to Rick for a rough fuck. Nothing too crazy, but you just wanna get spanked a few times, get— have me slap you around a little. Well, let me correct that misunderstanding. I am not gentle. I don’t give a shit if you’re screaming, or crying or fucking praying... so let me confirm. However _I want?_ "

Your face burns, you nod in response, too exhilarated and petrified to do anything else. How long you've wanted this, for him to see you and devote his full attention. Unfortunately, the only times he takes notice of you are to demean and chastise. Now that you finally worked up the courage to ask him, to do what felt like taking a scalpel to your chest and cracking open your sternum, he treats you like this.

Inexplicable attraction to him is enough, but his sneering reduction of your request is beyond humiliating. If you could just wither away and turn to dust, that would be preferable to spending one more second around him. Not that you dislike him-- quite the opposite, in fact. You yearn to be around him, but it's safest to admire him from afar. Like against the wall at a party. Then you can sip your beer and watch him dance and socialize and fantasize about him within the bounds of your own mind. Secure and controlled.

But… that’s not really what you want. A fantasy is one thing. Trusting yourself to him is something else. And that’s what you want. To offer yourself completely, and see how far he’ll take it, which might be why you just blurted out your most shameful daydream to him. The first time he met you, he had summarily dismissed you, with an appraising glance and a question that made your cheeks burn: "does she talk?" As if being the new neighbor on the block wasn't bad enough, you put yourself out there and get stepped on. At least he didn't make that typical observation, 'she's so quiet'.

"Strip." He watches you closely, and when you're completely bare, ties your arms behind your back, bent, so you're grabbing your elbows. He doesn't care that you're shy, or embarrassed. He walks around you, inspecting you. "Stand up straight." He slaps one ass cheek, then the other. "Legs apart." Standing behind you, he sweeps your hair off one side of your neck and bends down and bites. _Hard._ You breathe in sharply before you can stop yourself.

His teeth dig into your skin, and beneath the initial, acute pain, there is pleasure. His hands cup your breasts, squeezing firmly at first, and then harder. Too hard. Another two points of pain that your body defies recognizing as such. His fingers twist and pinch your nipples. He finds another spot on your neck and bites again; when his mouth comes away the spot feels wet, you don't know whether from his saliva or your own blood.

One of his hands ghosts down your stomach, lingers there and traces lines with his fingernails. His voice is low and hoarse. “Y-you're not gonna say anything, not gonna make any noise, huh? Just gonna let me-- just gonna be a doormat, let me walk all over you?" You can feel his erection, still clothed, pressing against your ass. “You like the, uh, like the pain, you're a-a little pain slut. It’s alright, I underst— I get that. So no matter how much pain— no matter how much I hurt you, remember that you asked for it.” His hand goes lower again, such a gentle contrast to what he had inflicted on your breasts. His fingers glide between your folds, dip into the molten heat. You gasp and squirm at the touch, bucking your hips to try to get him to touch your clit.

"Oho, already wet for me, aren't you?" He won't allow you even that modicum of relief. He teases around it, moves to bite the other side of your neck, at the juncture of your shoulder. He isn't nearly as gentle here, his teeth stamp bruises on your skin, you're sure. Tomorrow you'll have to cover them up when you go to work, but privately you'll marvel at them in the mirror, poke at them and imagine his hands and mouth on you once more.

"N-neeeever would've thought, a shy little thing like you getting off like this. Begging a dirty old man to fuck her... however I want, right? You're such a slut, you'll take whatever I give you and like it. D-don't deny it. I-i-if I bent you over right now and went in dry, would you plead for me to stop? Or keep going?" His finger pumps in and out of you slowly, shallow, and he still won't touch your clit, though he must know how much you need him to.

"Rick... please." You choke out.

"So she can talk," he sounds more annoyed than amused. He lifts his fingers, wet with your juices, shoves them in your mouth, and then wipes his hand off on your face. He comes around in front of you to view his handiwork.

"Crying already?" He observes. Your mascara must be running. "Mmm, that's, uh, that's really sexy, that’s what I like to see." He grips your jaw in one hand and turns your head to look at the marks he left. His expression betrays nothing, which only stokes your desire higher.

He pushes you backwards and laughs as you try to flail while you fall, though you land safely with a thwump on the couch. He kneels between your legs even as you try to close them against his intense gaze. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs painfully as he pries them apart.

"Uh uh. I don't think so. You don't get to by shy anymore, w-w-we're past the point of no return." He dips his head and nuzzles the soft skin on your inner thigh, nipping in one place, sucking hard in another. You quiver, trying not to rush him, but needing so much more. He slaps your thigh in warning when you roll your hips up. Too eager. He leaves teeth marks on your skin; you can see bruises forming and mottled patches of red. Delight and fear entwine your senses, translating into a primal, aching need. He teases closer and closer to your pussy, alternating each side, trailing ruin. Your thighs look like they've been beaten, but you hardly feel the pain. He's elevated you to some ethereal place, beyond your control. Your eyes have trouble focusing, all you want to do is close them, and give yourself over to him, to trust in his command of your body.

Your desperate whine when he finally licks once up the length of your slit sounds distant, even to you.

He looks up, seeming to have forgotten you're there. "Stop s-starin at me like that, it's fucking creepy. I don't have time for this doe-eyed bullshit. Cut-- cut it out, you're pissing me off. The fuck is wrong with you? Are you stupid?"

You bite your lip, look away, but can't help glancing at him again.

"Ooookay, you know what? I'm gonna make this easy for you." He pulls a length of black cloth from within his lab coat and blindfolds you with it.

You flush, humiliated about being unable to obey such a simple instruction. And yet, the blindfold is a comfort. You don't have to think, or worry about where to look. Only feel, and respond.

"I like it when you blush. Shows you know your place. You know your place, don't you, slut?"

"Mmm... mhmm."

"And? Wh-what is it?"

"To do whatever you want." Your voice sounds so small and pathetic, yet confessing that aloud thrills you. Unable to see, you listen more intently, your skin feels electrified at his touch. You focus on his smell, whiskey and laundry detergent and motor oil, and it grounds you.

"Thaaat's right. So when I say, stop fucking staring at me, I expect you to _stop fucking staring at me._ "

You feel and hear him flop down on the couch next to you, and a moment later, he drags you over, re-positioning you to straddle his legs.

Then, the sound of his fly unzipping, a rustle of fabric. His hard cock nudges at your thigh while he lifts your hips and guides you back down.Your pussy is raw and swollen and aching, and you lower without much control, unable to balance without your arms. You let out a pained whimper. He is so big, the blunt head pushing into your slickness. The hurt is fleeting, whisked away in that same hazy place where your pleasure comes from hearing his rough voice tell you how good you're doing, how perfect you are when you take his dick.

"Y-you want to cum, don't you?" He spears you fully with one final thrust, then begins to rock into you. "Can you cum like this?"

"I don't know..." Your whimper turns into an embarrassing sob. You are wound so tightly, overstimulated and reaching for release, only for it to slip away. "It's too big."

He slows marginally, enough to kiss your shoulder, nip at it. The sharpness focuses your pleasure. You are safe with him. Almost flying."You-- I wish you could see what I see, baby, you're so fucking hot. Christ, your face is a mess, and your skin's all red and your pussy is just... unnh... tight. I get to watch my dick disappear in that tight little hole and come out glistening. Ffffuck you're so wet for me, such a good slut." He spanks your ass, rather lightly.

You exhale, his words inflaming your desire, to the point you can almost forget how exposed you are, and you find the courage to ask, "harder, please." Tears leak out, you don't know whether from pain or pleasure or utter humiliation at craving both. The blindfold soaks them up. Rick brings an open palm down on your ass with a resounding smack; you clench around him involuntarily.

He groans at that. "God damn you feel good." He hits you again, and this time strokes up as he does. You moan his name, so full, the pulse of arousal threatening to overwhelm you. Gradually he builds back to his previous pace, with a slap every time you say his name, and you come undone in a slow, mind-dulling onslaught; lust whites out your senses, you sag against him, incoherent.

Rick's composure breaks at last. His hands steady you, one holding the binding on your arms, the other at your waist. He fucks you with none of his earlier lenience, his hips snap up and his hand pulls you down, driving deep, splitting you open. You are hardly more pliable from your release, but he uses you anyway, turns you into a slick, dripping mess. Post-climax sensitivity rolls over, like a churning wave, and your arousal builds again, swifter and wilder than before. He is vicious, biting and sucking at your breasts and neck and collarbone. By chance, it seems, he finds your mouth and doesn't so much kiss as attack your lips. You taste blood there already, coppery and slick. He swallows your pleading moans greedily, slamming into you like he wants to break you. 

The only mercy he shows is to press his thumb to your clit. You pulse around his cock, unable to do more than ride him, clinging to him with only your legs, pressing your abused thighs to him, needing the sensation of dull pain. He pounds into your wet cunt, opening you up for him, destroying you. You wail as searing pleasure consumes you in a roaring fire. And he is unrelenting, seeking his own release within yours. He repeats your name as his movements become savage, he abandons rhythm; he comes with a deep, satisfied groan, pumping into you and emptying his balls. He slows and it starts to seep out, when he lifts you off of him, most of it comes out in a gush, making your thighs slippery.

Rick lays you on your side, undoes the wrist restraints and the blindfold. You wince, not trusting yourself to move, and feeling suddenly exposed now that you can see him again. But he barely looks at you, instead wiping off his dick and tucking himself back in his pants. He gets his flask from a pocket in his lab coat, uncaps it, and drinks deeply, then seems to notice you again.

He burps in a resigned sort of way, as if seeing to your welfare is an inconvenience, but he picks you up anyway, like a princess, and carries you to his room. He deposits you on his bed, gets a pot of ointment from among the clutter on his desk.

"Th-this is gonna sting," he says. "No way around it." As he massages it into your skin, he catalogs each mark for you. You hum with pride and satisfaction when he praises every bite and bruise, telling you how long he thinks they'll last. His attention sustains you, emboldens you, and you ask if you can do this all again after they fade.

He grins. "Why--eeurgh-- why wait? What do you think about wax play? Get some candles, some of those special candles they make for it and tie you down on the dining table while my daughter's out of town. Then we can really see how loud you scream."


	10. Doofus Rick Redux!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two requests for this:  
> 1: I read your story about doofus rick and it was amazing! Please keep up the good work. I wanted to ask, could you play on that senecio more ? Reader is a lone with him again, playing with each other similar to your story but it leads in to sex ? I think your writing is amazing and I think you could really do amazing things with this. Please and thank you again your amazing!
> 
> 2: The doofus rick x reader was so well written and sweet and and perfect! I would love to see more of him!
> 
> tags: morning cuddles, spooning sex

“Good morning,” you mumble to the warm mass clinging to you. Dawn light suffuses the room, ephemeral this late in the fall.

Rick makes a happy little ‘hmm’ into your hair. It’s rare not to wake up like this, with him spooning you. He seems to be trying to make up for a lifetime absence of physical affection. He hugs you at every opportunity, kisses any part he can reach, which is usually the top of your head. He holds your hand when you cross the street. Even at night, when you toss and turn away from him, he calms you, wakes you gently from your nightmares and curls around you, then cuddles you back to sleep. 

“What do you want to do today? Farmer’s market?”

He hums again and shifts his hips. His erection presses against the curve of your bottom; he grinds himself on you slowly with a low, obscured moan. He’s only half awake, then. Fully conscious and he would be too embarrassed to do such lewd things to someone he considered so flawless and perfect, though you regularly encouraged him to do so. 

“Rick,” you say softly, shaking his arm a little. He only moans louder. You say his name again and press your ass back against his hard shaft. 

“I’m awake,” he whispers, sounding mortified. “I-I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, you just, felt so good. This… it happens sometimes, in the morning. Even when you don’t sleep over. I usually take care of it myself, I’m sorry. I’ll just go—"

“You’re not leaving.” 

“O-oh. Okay.” He relaxes marginally, but still doesn’t seem to understand what you want, or what you’re willing to give him.

You reach your free hand down, in the space between your bodies, and grasp his length through his pyjamas. He whimpers and bucks into your hand, like he can’t help himself. His naive, earnest reactions to everything you do flatter you too much. You don’t think you can go back from him. Besides, you’re selfish, and the multiverse mistreated him before you discovered him.

He realizes what’s happening and stills enough for you to shove both of your nightclothes down enough for access. You rub your bare ass up against his hips; his erection is hot and solid at the cleft of your bottom. A thrill of desire pulses through you at teasing him. You shouldn’t enjoy how desperate he is, how he clutches you to him like a man searching for faith.

You feel his cock twitch. “You know, you can fuck me just like this, Rick.”

“Yes, _please,_ please let me…” He grabs your hip, begging for permission. Well, that didn’t take much effort. Usually he needs more convincing; you’ve found it necessary before to sit and talk with him for hours before he’s comfortable. Thank your lucky stars that isn’t the case now. You adjust, a little clumsy, and guide yourself onto his cock. He sinks into your slick heat, his arm underneath you wrapping tighter around your chest. He pulls you too eagerly against him, burying his length in you. You gasp his name, his full name, the way he likes to introduce himself. J19Z7. The pleasure of being so well filled negates the brief sting. He is thick and long, and in this position, hits your g-spot perfectly. He probably doesn’t realize he’s doing that.  
He rocks into you, a slow, aching rhythm punctuated by his breathy moans against your neck.

You lift your leg and hook it over his, allowing him better purchase. He thrusts deeper, tense as if trying to restrain his need to bring you closer. His hand on your hip moves down, his fingers brush over you clit. Not very graceful, but you don’t care. You like the little things he doesn’t get quite right. You place your fingers over his and show him how to move, small circles in time with his cock stroking into you. You feel your own wetness coating him as he fucks you, your fingers touch his shaft.

“Make me come, Rick, please, I need you, _faster, please…_ ” He does best with sincere, earnest encouragement. “Yes, that’s good, so good.” You move your hand and grasp his lean forearm. “So good, Rick, I’m… I’m gonna come.” Your voice hitches.  
His touch on your clit and his hips both speed up, even as he pleads your name in response. He is too sweet, tempered by an unkind world and emerging pure. You close your eyes as your climax bathes you in searing pleasure. Every nerve in your body pulls tight and then snaps; you pulse around him, and he cries out, rolling his hips, pressing close into you, needing your acceptance. You take his offering of release, ride him as he subsides. You must reassure him that he hasn’t hurt you.

After a moment, Rick slips out of you, softening; you feel a gush of wetness. The air is too still, his heart beats at your back.

“Wanna try something _really_ wild?” You twist around to look at him. 

He blushes, nodding vigorously. Less hesitation than usual.

“Okay, turn over.” 

He does so without question, looking adorable when he peeks at you over his shoulder. You smile approval, then take a place behind him as the big spoon. He startles a little when he feels you, but you throw your arm around his chest anyway. You press kisses to his bare back and shoulder. He wiggles in delight. “I-is this how it always feels for you?” He whispers.

“Hmm?”

“Like everything warm, and safe.” He sighs. He almost understands. Some bright morning you will face him, and make him lay his heart on the stones for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell behind responding to comments here, I'm very sorry! (Okay, I didn't get around to it at all... please accept my apologies.) But I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has commented. Some of you said such wonderful, kind things, especially on that reaaaally long chapter, and your encouragement makes my day. Thank you all!


	11. Get Well Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader is sick, Rick looks after them.
> 
> Gender neutral reader, short and fluffy

“Pleeease, Rick, don’t you have anything for just, like, a cold. Can’t you whip something up real quick?”

“Nope, I'm not a Meeseeks box-- I'm-- I don't take requests for Science, and besides, it’s _just a cold._ Get the fuck over it.”

“But I have to go to work! And I’ve been puking all night, and I can’t even breab through my nobe!”

“Wellll maybe you could use your mouth to breathe if you weren’t yapping in my ear all da-eeuurgh--amn morning. And by the way, _don’t_ ask a Meeseeks to cure your cold.”

“Stuffy nose means no blowjobs until I feel better.”

His jaw clenches as he contemplates the implications of your condition. “ _Fine!_ I can’t— I was serious, though, I can’t whip something up for this. I mean, I could, but curing the common cold comes with so many side effects, we might end up having to hop dimensions. Best I can do is get you out of work. And no, I’m not gonna get you fired, I know how ‘important’ it is to you to ‘earn your own money’ and ‘do your part’ for ‘society’. BRB.”

He opens a portal and steps through, grumbling all the while. By the time he gets back, you feel significantly worse.

“Jeez, you look awful...ly cute.”

You glare at him, but he is undeterred. Your expression, your runny nose, messy hair, glassy eyes, general malaise. Nothing puts him off. He swaddles you in thick, fluffy blankets, tucks you in on the couch. Places a box of tissues within reach, and brings you hot tea with lemon and honey. Before handing it to you, he uncaps his flask and dumps some liquor in. It's sweet and spicy and would probably smells delicious, but is also too hot to drink. He blows on the tea until he determines it’s cool enough, then brings it to your mouth. You feel like an invalid, entrusted to his calm, firm care.

He settles on the couch next to you and pulls you close. Isn't he worried about catching whatever hellish sickness you have? But he only flips on the TV, tilts his head to rest on yours, strokes your hair.

This behavior is too strange for Rick. You have to say something. “If you’re any nicer I might have to throw up on you.”

He only draws his arm tighter around you, shushing you and murmuring. Rick knows best. And he wants that blowjob.


	12. First time smoking with Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Um Rick Sanchez teaching reader how to do something that he enjoys and it is inadvertently a great bonding moment so he ruins it at the end?
> 
> tags/warnings: drug use (weed), gender neutral reader

It is beyond your understanding why Rick Sanchez feels comfortable bringing his fourteen year old grandson to an intergalactic strip club/hookah lounge, yet Morty seems more at ease here than you are. You were supposed to be watching the boy, part baby-sitter, part tutor, part buffer from the corrupting influence of his grandfather. But when Rick had interrupted your tutoring session, and you had refused to leave Morty to Rick's clutches, Rick had dragged _both_ of you through one of those mysterious green portals. Once you step through, you are greeted with what you expect of a club ambiance: flashing lights, dance-able music, tons of mirrors, and corners dark enough to conceal the shame of being seen in a place like this. Only thing noticeably different are the patrons and the staff, though many are vaguely humanoid. Alien or not, this place is clearly a dive. Even so, Rick apparently decided to sidestep the cover charge and transport you all directly inside.

He deposits you and his grandson in a secluded booth with a good view of one of the stages, and weaves away, presumably to get drinks.

Morty quickly gets bored, and rebuffs your attempts to continue discussing 'All Quiet on the Western Front', which he is supposed to be reading for English class. Before Rick returns, Morty gets up and abandons you, saying only that he'll be in the arcade.  
Alone, you fiddle with the water pipe that stands at the center of the low table. Under different circumstances you might actually be okay with this. Having a crush on a brilliant seventy year old alcoholic narcissist is possibly your _worst_ personality trait, but as you've tried to reason yourself out of it, without success, you're somewhat resigned at this point. Yes, he is exasperating and rude and dismissive, you've already acknowledged all of those shortcomings and you still come away with what feels like a childish infatuation. An interest that overrides all reason (and good taste) and makes you blush when he looks at you.

Rick comes back with a tray full of drinks and some finger foods. It's on him, he tells you, as a bribe for not telling Beth about this little excursion.

"Morty went to the arcade," you inform him.

He nods. "Good. That little scamp-- that little rascal needed it. Y-you know can't keep him cooped up all day, you-- he's gotta get out and live his life, just-- get some life-- some living under his belt." He sighs and leans back, kicking his feet up on the table, sipping a martini. 

You worry your lower, lip, wanting to respond, to engage with him somehow, but completely at a loss for how to do so without being shot down. Fortunately, he displays a rare moment of awareness outside of himself. "No need to be so nervous, what, you think I'm gonna bite you?"

"I'm not nervous because of you!" (A lie.) "I'm-- what am I supposed to tell Beth and Jerry when we all get back and I smell like booze and Morty's homework isn't done?"

Rick shrugs and then takes out a baggie of something suspicious, along with a pipe.

"What are you doing?” You demand. “Are you smoking in here?"

He ignores you, packing the bowl, then lighting it and taking a long, deep pull. He holds it for a minute, and when he speaks again, his words are exhaled in a thick cloud. "Huh... that's weird."

You wave your hand in front of your face and make a rather excessive show of coughing at the sweet, pungent smoke. "What is?"

"I don't see any fires around, do you?"

"Uh, no?"

"Yeah, so why are you being a wet blanket?"

"I'm not!" You take one of the drinks from the tray and sip it to prove that you're okay with this, even though you're sitting prim and straight-backed. Why is acting proper always your reaction to unfamiliar, rule-breaking situations? The drink you pick is quickly abandoned; it’s too strong, and you don’t want to be impaired. 

Rick rolls his eyes. “Fuckin goody two shoes. Gimme that if y-you’re not gonna finish it.” You push it over to him, and he takes it without looking at you, his eyes instead tracking a buff blue-skinned waiter.

"Y-you know, there’s nothing wrong with not doing something if you don’t want to, but if your reason is because you’re _scared_ or i-i-it doesn’t fit with your idea of what you _should_ do… I-I-I-I dunno, you might like it.

“Once I found a planet where their whole culture was based around weed. They had a 50 foot bong, all decked out, ceremonial, like a- like a religious object. The Pope's own bong. Like his holy scepter, i-i-if you took a hit from it and didn't pass out, you were-- they'd declare the one who did it as their new leader. So I hit it a-a-and it was amazing! They made me their leader and I got a little wreath made of leaves, of pot leaves, they gave me their blessings and every--eeurgh--thing."

"Uh, cool."

"What, you're not impressed?"

"Well, I mean... I don't know? 50 feet? Is that harder in a different atmosphere or something? I've never smoked anything."

"What?" Rick can't decide which part to be more outraged over. "Never-- I'm-- fuck. YEs. 50 feet i-is--- It's almost as impressive as my massive dong. And you've never smoked? No little puffs on a joint, no- no sneaking a cigarette when you're drunk? Never? I-I-I'm, not that I shouldn't be surprised, if you've never been offered any, what with that whole wet blanket vibe you have but... shit. Here." He takes a little case from an inner pocket of his lab coat and scoots closer to you, so your knees nearly touch.

"Alright, check it out. I'm gonna show you the basics to, uh, to roll a joint, which you should've learned going to that hippie-dippy college, bu--eeuugh-ut I guess you wasted your time actually studying." He unzips the case and begins to lay out his supplies.  
“So you got your rolling papers, regular old rolling papers” he indicates each item, “a grinder, and of course the, uh, the weed. Watch carefully.”

Of course, he goes too fast for you to pick up on what he’s doing— typical, and expects you to be able to follow along. You present him with a misshapen lump and he berates you for being wasteful. “Maybe you _shouldn’t_ learn how to do this. I don’t know if you deserve it.” He fixes yours anyway, sets it aside. After lighting his, which looks perfect, and taking a couple of draws, he hands it to you. 

“Not too deep,” he counsels with a wicked grin. “Don’t-- you don’t wanna get nauseous your first time.”

You nod, nervous under his scrutiny. You take a little hit and blow it out, looking to him for confirmation. 

“Well not _that_ little, th-that was pathetic. Give it to me, you’re gonna let it go out.” He snatches it and takes a few long puffs, then gives a relaxed sigh. “Ahhhh, that’s good shit. Here. Try not to be so lame this time.”

You do try, feeling even more self conscious from his attention, which is now focused on you and only you. The way you’re holding it is too dainty, the way you’re sitting is too uptight. You breathe in too much and immediately choke, head spinning. He laughs at you and takes it back. When he next offers the joint to you, he corrects your posture, which is to say, he pulls on your shoulder until you sag back against the cushions. Then his fingers ghost over yours, showing you how to hold it and not look completely out of place.

“Theeeere you, go,” he murmurs as you bring it to your lips. “Inhale, exhale, niiiice and slow.” Just as he says, and his voice, a low rumble, seems to trigger the effect of the drug, finally.

At once you’re hyper aware of Rick at your side, so close. That voice does things to you; you tilt your head back and the ceiling starts to drift a little.

“H-how do you feel? Okay?”

You look at him and suddenly feel all smiley. Everything is so absurdly _funny_. “You look like a cartoon. Do you ever worry that your eyebrow is just gonna get tired of all your frowning and crawl away? Crawl away like a little...caterpillar.”

Any other time he would have snapped at you for a comment like that. Now, he merely smiles peacefully. “Allll the time.” He waggles his unibrow at you in emphasis.

Time passes in a curious way. Rick lounges, you pass the joint back and forth, people watching in lazy, distracted conversation. His arm starts draped on the backrest behind you, and ends up around your shoulders. You bask in his proximity. Everything is comfortable, for once your anxiety is suspended somewhere far away, where it can’t reach you.

"I wish I was confident enough to dance like that." You gesture towards the rubenesque antelope-headed stripper closest to your booth.

"I stripped my way through college," Rick offers.

You break into giggles at the thought of him in a tear-away costume, hip thrusting on stage, and tell him so.

“Bet you would’ve liked to have seen me, huh?”

You nod to one of the dancers closest to the booth. “Could you work a pole like that?”

“Hoooo yeah, you have no idea, baby. Used to pull in a thousand flurbos a night, on a _slow_ night.”

“Wow,” you breathe reverently, although you have no idea what the flurbo-dollar exchange rate is.

“H-hold on.” He grabs your wrist when the joint is almost all the way burned down. “Ther—eeeurgh— there’s one more thing I gotta show you befo—eeeurgh—re the student becomes the master. Y-y-you know before your journey is complete and you’re— it’s part of the essential college experience.” He plucks it from your fingers and leans in close, as if about to kiss you. Despite your hazy relaxation, your heart thrills. “Open your mouth, baby. Yeah, just like that, open it for me, stay there.” He takes a long, deep drag, then blows a huge plume of smoke into your mouth. You choke in surprise, cough out his name.

He groans and stands up, unfolding his long limbs. “Sh-should’ve known you couldn’t handle it. Not quite ready for the big leagues, huh?” He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “Just stay here, wait for Morty.”

“Where are you going?” You’re starting to feel woozy and nauseous, and really wish he would stay with you, maybe rub your shoulders.

“To hang out with someone who won’t embarrass me when I whip out the hard stuff.” Your frown only deepens when he grabs his crotch. “Yeah, my big dick, muthafuckaaa!” He belches. “Gonna go get a lap dance from that gazelle… antelope. Whatever. Later, biiii-eeurgh—itch!”


	13. Demon Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Rick is a demon and you summon him with the intentions of making him do your bidding. You find out the hard way he can't be controlled.
> 
> tags/warnings: dubcon, vaginal and anal sex

“Did I get the wrong kind of demon?” You mutter to yourself, flipping through the promotional catalogue. Whatever is passed out on your living room floor definitely isn’t what you ordered. Must have entered the wrong code in the Summonly app. (This was the result of Pandora branching out to take advantage of the gig economy.) Either that, or it was a mistake on the distribution and delivery end.

God, could this day get any worse? All you had planned was to summon a demon real quick and make it clean up your kitchen, do the dishes, some meal prep. Now you’ll have to deal with Demon Disposal, and their phone tree is a damn nightmare.  
Well, this one should get the job done anyway, if you can get it to listen. You nudge the sickly looking thing with your toe. “Hey, demon. Up and at ‘em.”

It— he— growls. He looks nothing like any demon you’ve dealt with before, and you’d like to consider yourself experienced with them, at least enough to keep yourself safe. Curled up on the floor as he is, you can see his vertebrae in a line under his pallid skin. Two horrific scars are scored on either side of his spine, right by his shoulder blades. Bad amputation, or stabbed in the back.

Maybe you hadn’t done the summon confirmation properly? But you had walked backwards in a circle three times while holding your phone. You check that the pentagram is still etched on the back, and it looks fine, so why—? Oh, he’s getting up.

“Liquor… need… liquor.”

“Um, exCUSE me! Hey! Demon!”

He pays you no heed, wanders to the kitchen. He’s gaunt, half dressed, he has a bald spot. Great, an old, addled demon. He probably doesn’t know where he is.

You follow him. “Hey! I’m talking to you! What are you? I need your serial so I can call the From Whence It Came hotline.”

He’s opened all your cabinets, as well as the fridge, and is taking things from the shelves, inspecting them, and tossing the ones he doesn’t need on the floor. Including your dishes.

“Cut it out! Who are you?”

His head whips around, finally noticing you, and rasps, “wh-you wanna know what I am? I’m a mothafuckin demon. I-I—I’m a _fiend_ , baby. Go—eeeurhg—got all that hellfire and damnation and mischief. Gonna play pranks up in this bitch.”

“Okay, yeah, I know, that’s great. Can you just—"

“ _Rick._ ” He moves in a blur, too fast to comprehend, from your cabinets to you, and you swear, startled. “I’m _Rick._ ” A deep, unsettling reverberation sounds under his voice, as if his wiry body conceals some huge malevolence. Right in front of you, he towers, unnaturally tall. His bloodshot eyes open too wide, his mouth too broad, fixed in a facsimile of what a demon thinks a smile should look like. “Why did you bring me here?” 

“Uhm… to...clean my kitchen?”

He tips the bottle back, chugging your best scotch, then belches. Black, oily spittle dribbles down his chin. “So I was called here to se—eeur—erve you.”

“Obviously, and you’re not doing a very good job, you broke my dishes, asshole, I’m gonna charge all of that, by the way, and don’t expect anything better than a three star—"

His free hand shoots out and closes around your throat. His fingers are long, cold, his grip like an iron shackle. “Why the fuck should I do anything you say, you little shit?”

You blink and cough, shock scrambling your response. “I-I…” your nails scrabble at the hand strangling you; he doesn’t seem to notice the deep scratches in his skin. He pushes you backwards by your neck, not holding hard enough to choke you, but enough to strike panic. Your one chance is your phone, still in hand. You try to type in the emergency rogue demon number, but he notices what you're doing and swats the phone away. The screen shatters when it hits the tile floor.

"Don't think so." He turns you around and shoves you face first against the wall. His tongue snakes out, and you note with a confusing jolt of desire that it’s cut down the middle, human, but forked like a reptile’s. It is also absolutely not the time to wonder how that would feel.

“Nnnn _fuck_ , I’m hungry. You smell…ripe. You, uhh, you got a juicy cunt, don’t you. I can tell.”

“Stop it! Get _off me_.” You waver between arousal and terror and repulsion. He leans in close and licks your cheek. You can feel the two tips of his tongue, moving separately. The shiver that wriggles up your spine is more than just fear. "I said get off. I have a contract, you have to obey me."

He presses his hips to yours to show you that, no, he really doesn't. You feel his erection through thin layers of clothes. He laughs when you squirm. “What, you thought I was gonna be some kinda hail Satan bullshit, all goth emo with—with eyeliner and shit. No, hail _me_ motherfucker. I _own_ you. I’m the ma-eeurgh--ster of your reality now." He wastes little time shoving your clothes and his out of the way, exposing your ass and thighs. 

You alternate between indignant threats and impotent pleading for him to stop, and he ignores all of it, only pausing to wrench your head around and force you to appreciate his cock. Appreciate is, perhaps, too generous. It is grotesquely large, red, veiny, and sparks conflicting feelings of lust and profound unease. He’s not _normal_. He sticks his forked tongue out at you with a grin when he reads the disturbance in your expression, then sinks into you with a hoarse groan.

You choke back a cry at the rough, sudden intrusion.

“Come on, you little slut, you can scream. _Damn_ you feel good, so-- tight." He thrusts languidly, but there is no adjusting, he permits nothing less than complete subjection.

"No, stop..." you try to sound commanding but it comes out keening and pathetic. 

He keeps experimenting until he finds... oh, right there. You push your hips back instinctively, knowing he’ll feel that one concession and take advantage. 

"Y-y-you live alone, right? Why else would you be so lazy that you have to call a damn demon to do your housekeeping for you. Well guess what, this one doesn’t take orders. Tell me to stop one more time and I’ll fuck your ass open, dry." He hits that perfect spot over and over, one hand on your hips, forcing them to cant just right, so he can penetrate as deep as possible. "Only sounds I wanna hear out of you are positive, affirmative, nice little moans, begging for my dick.” Cheek flat on the wall, you can see his lurid smile out of the corner of your eye. “Can I get an amen?”

"Go to hell, asshole." You deny yourself the dull, creeping pleasure he inflicts on you. It's maddening, and you don't dare touch yourself. 

He doesn't reply, he slows his pace, and somehow it's worse. You clench around him, pliant, and at last he grunts, "nnngh fuck, yeah, that’s, uh, that’s real good, squeee—eeurgh—eeze on my cock just like that... you wanna cum, don't you? You wanna cum but this isn't... quite... enough." His hands go to your ass, one on each cheek, pulling you apart.

You give a pitiful whimper, alarm rushing back in for a moment. "N-no. Please, no." His thumbs probe your back hole, the one he hasn’t filled yet. You hear a gurgling sound, then he spits, a viscous gob of his saliva hits your ass, leaving a cold trail as it oozes down. He massages it on the puckered opening, making a satisfied hum.

“No!” You squeal. “Stop stop stop!” He doesn’t. He hooks his thumbs into the tight ring of muscle and pulls, even as his cock still strokes into your cunt. You cringe at the sting. He spreads you wider, working you open. “No, please. Please don’t.” Tears finally come, rolling down your face.

“Why not?”

“It.. hurts!” You manage through hiccuped breaths.

His grin is psychotic, his eyes aflame. “Tha—eeurgh—that’s my favorite part.”

He pulls out, a brief reprieve, and you whine at the sensation— not in relief, but because you feel empty and you hate yourself. Your face is wet and red and hot with humiliation. You won’t succumb. You absolutely won’t.

He aligns his cock to your ass, pressing the tip into the tight, unyielding hole. 

You sob, digging your nails into your palms. Your body stretches to accommodate his thick length, just barely. He splits you open and your arousal swallows him, inch by inch. 

One hand stays at your hip; he moves his other arm to pin you solidly against the wall, his forearm like a steel bar at your back. He fucks you hard and slow, at his leisure, panting and groaning his enjoyment of your body. It's been too long, he says, and he is greedy. He wants everything from you; he will have dominion over your pleasure.

“Oh, god…” you’re near incoherent, thoughts muddled except for a singular, agonizing need. Earlier stubborn refusal becomes a vague consideration.

“Who the fuck are you praying to? Tell-eeurgh— tell me. Praying for divine intervention? Y-y-you think _god_ is gonna swoop in and rescue you? Here’s some advice: you wanna make an appeal to a higher power, you fucking ask _me_. I am the beginning and end of your world."

You whine in desperation.

"Say it." His forked tongue tastes a swath of your neck. "You wanna cum with my fat cock filling your ass, I can feel you. Say it, slut."

"Yes, please g-- Rick, let me cum, _please._ ”

He snakes a hand down the front of your body, thrusts two fingers into your aching pussy and presses his entire palm on your clit.”Do it. Cum. Scream for me.” He allows you just enough leeway to grind on his hand, and you tense around him, desire cresting.

Your climax rises in a blinding, spectacular burst of sensation. His name claws from your throat in a guttural howl. Everything convulses, unstoppable and in your glory you think you can claim him, this incarnation of defiant power. He drives into you, ravenous in pursuit of his own release; he follows you mindlessly to oblivion, snarling his release and biting into your neck. His teeth draw blood, though the pain is distant. When he withdraws, sated, you slide to the floor in a ruined heap. You can feel his cum leaking from your ass. 

You look up at him, bleary eyed, and note that his shadow is cast in the wrong direction, towards the light source. You touch a hand to the tender spot on your neck, bemused when you find your fingers glistening red.

From his height, he looks down his nose at you, and smirks at the destruction he’s wrought. “Great, perfect. I’ve seeded you, expect to bear my unholy spawn in a week or so. Probably from your pussy, maybe your ass. Most likely not your mouth bu—eeurgh—ut anything’s possible. Hasta luego babyyyy! Have fun in purgatory!”


	14. Rick and chubby reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Could you maybe do a rick x female reader smut for a reader who is kinda chubby (lets be honest im a fat fuck lmfao, rip). It can be kinky hehe. You don't have to but if you want to -J
> 
> tags: light bondage

“Rick, can you _please_ turn off the lights? Or at least let me put a shirt on?“ He’s already tied you spread eagle on your bed, one limb to each bedpost. He hadn’t exactly promised to keep the room dark, but there had been the insinuation, and now you are naked and a little chilly and brightly-lit.

“No.”

“But I’m just… I’m embarrassed.”

He slaps your thigh sharply. He’s not in a permissive mood today. “What did I just say? Am I gonna have to gag you? Put a muzzle on you and walk you around like a– like some disobedient bitch? Stop fishing for compliments.”

He routinely tells you that you’re cute, beautiful, more as observations than for your own ego. Insecurity though, is like a fine mesh, and while some good filters through, it takes a very, very long time for anything substantial to accumulate. Once, he had you strip naked, blindfolded you, suspended your wrists with a length of rope from the ceiling. He described your body to you, inch by inch, rendering his vision of you like Pygmalion sculpting Galatea. And when he was at last satisfied with your sincerity that you believed him, he removed the blindfold, and you saw yourself encircled by mirrors. Rick knelt in front of you with your leg over his shoulder, and made you watch him worship you with his tongue.

You pout, fall silent for a moment, but then his hand goes to your stomach and you cringe at his touch there. “ _Rick._ ” He raises his head from your thigh, which he’s been trailing with wet kisses, as if to say ‘this had better be good’. Interrupting him from his singular fixations, be it tinkering in his workshop or eating pussy, can be risky. You look down your body at him, hung up on the idea that he must be blind, and can’t possibly see the imperfections that are so obvious.

He rolls his eyes and sighs impatiently. “Alright, listen up, l-listen closely here, because I’m only gonna say this once. _My_ opinion is the only one that matters, and I think you’re god damn gorgeous.” He pauses to nuzzle your soft skin, then burps. “And if anyone gets to be self conscious it’s me! I-I-I’m fucking old as shit. Got a– got me a bald spot and some wrinkly old balls and my ass might as well be concave, shit, that’s wrinkly too, I got no fuckin idea why you think I look good. I’m built like a damn scarecrow, but you get all wet for me without me having to do anything, so why is it so damn hard for you to understand that you have the same effect on me?”

“You know I don’t like it when you… when you touch my stomach.” His eyes narrow, but you forge ahead. “It just feels like you’re calling attention to my flaws.”

“Flaws?” He gets up, climbing over your body and settling to straddle your hips. His cock juts, hard and heavy from the thatch of blue-grey curls, and his balls hang low enough to rest on your tummy. “Y-y-y-you see this, right?” He grabs his shaft in emphasis. “See how big my dick is? See how hard it is, right? That’s for you, baby, so be a good girl and just let me enjoy you.” He strokes himself slowly from base to tip, settles into an unhurried rhythm. You know he’s putting on a show to prove a point; Rick not only needs to be right all the time, he needs everyone to know it.

“You gotta get it through your head, you’re gorgeous baby. I know you don’t believe me, but maybe if I channel Jackson Pollock, y-you know, turn you into a painting you’ll, uh, you’ll see the light, huh?”

You nod, mesmerized by how he works his cock in full broad strokes. His hands show his age, but you like that. You like that his fingers are long and deft, and a bit knobby like thin branches. You like the rough contrast of his calluses on your smooth skin.

“Tits or face, baby, I’m gonna be– I’m feeling generous here. Feeling all–euurgh– all kinds of magnanimous. So what’ll it be?”

Your heart feels like it fills your entire chest, makes your voice small and hesitant. “My stomach?”

He groans. “Uhhnnf fuck yes, god, you’re sexy. Y-y-you know what I like… when I– when I’m fucking you and it’s all so soft and your tits are bouncing in my face and you– you come alive for me.” His eyes roam your body, hooded, lustful, and when he cums he bites his lip, like an artist, distant yet focused, in the throes of creation.


	15. Reader needs a new home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: I recently got kicked out of my house for a very bullshit reason, but I have 3 weeks to find a new place to live until I graduate. How’d Rick try to help a reader in my shoes?

Rick is resourceful. Like, he’s brilliant, but he’s street smart too, so when you text him at 2 a.m. asking to crash on the couch, he’ll step out of a portal next to you spouting questions and suggestions. You need money? He’ll pull a bank heist with you. You want petty revenge on those assholes who kicked you out? He’s already filling the water balloons and stocking up on eggs and TP. You just want a place to curl up and sulk? He has a motherfuckin secret bunker under the garage. 

The one thing he’s not so great at is being comforting. if you are looking for emotional support, look elsewhere. if you break down, or cry in front of him when there are other people around, expect to be ridiculed and mocked. Except… he understands. He really does get it. He’s been on the run for a good portion of his adult life, unable to settle down even if he wanted to. He knows that sense of insecurity and rejection, and while he thrives on chaos, he’s had too many doors slammed in his face when he really just needed a place to stay for a night, a shower and a meal and a bed if he’s lucky. 

He might pull you aside, quietly, out into the garage under the pretense of needing an extra pair of hands for some Science. You’d think the closest he could get to being sympathetic is holding someone at arms’ length and awkwardly patting their shoulder, but he would wind you into a fierce hug, grumbling, ‘this is the only one you get, so enjoy it while it lasts’. He would check his watch, counting down the time, then push you away. 'Oooookay, hug complete. Now I- I’ve been patient, here, I’ve given you options and I’m sick and tired of dealing with your lame ass moping. Pick something or we’re going wi–eeurgh– with Bonnie and Clyde.’


	16. Rick and virgin reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Reader is a virgin and Rick corrupts them.
> 
> tags: rough blowjob, deepthroating, humiliation, dirty talk

Rick grimaces when he sees you. Not the fawning reaction you were hoping for. “Christ, what the fuck are you wearing? You look fourteen. Lemme see your wallet.”

You hand it over, and he flips it open. “Got a driver’s license? Student ID?”

“Both.”

He takes the cards out and inspects them. You stand there awkwardly, until he says offhand with a glance, “take your shirt off. bra too.”

You do this, trying to project more confidence than you feel about being naked in front of an old man you barely know.

Rick remarks, “well, I guess you’re, uh, legal. I know fake IDs. Do your parents know you’re up this late?” He notices his surroundings for the first time, your childhood bedroom, where you had asked him to portal in to meet you. Home on holiday break from university, you had reasoned, would be the most practical way to check the ‘lose virginity’ box. No friendships or reputation at stake. You would return in January as a worldly woman. 

It was fortuitous that you had met Mr. Rick Sanchez, the crotchety grandfather from across the street. After a short conversation, he’d divined what you wanted, and offered to assist. That was yesterday afternoon, the day you arrived back in town, and he had seemed poised to whisk you away right then, except your parents had come outside and tried to invite him in for tea. The whole point of losing your virginity here, in your hometown, was to do it with someone who wouldn’t continue to be part of your life. That didn’t mean you didn’t want it to be enjoyable, and maybe even a bit romantic. When you had mentioned those stipulations to Rick, he’d grumbled about it being a waste of time, but didn’t say no.

“I’m an adult, they don’t care about how late I stay up, but they’d probably get mad if they find you in here with me.”

“What, because they don’t want you having guests, or because their little girl wants her cherry popped by the neighborhood lech?”

You worry your lip, arms crossed over your bare breasts. “Probably the second one, and, um, we’re not staying here, are we? Kinda weird to, you know, do it with all my old stuffed animals watching me.”

“Hmm, yeah. Y-you want this to be special, right? Your first time and all, maybe some music, some candles.”

Thank goodness, he understands. “Well, yeah–”

“Tough.” He belches loudly. “First things first, you’re gonna suck my dick. come over here and get on your knees.” He doesn’t sound angry, but his tone makes it clear that he expects obedience. You step toward him, still apprehensive. “Hands off your tits.” He takes a flask from within his lab coat and takes a long drink from it.

You drop your hands to your sides, then kneel several steps in front of him. Maybe he _doesn’t_ actually understand. “Rick, I’m nervous, can’t we take it a little slow?”

“Nope. Gotta learn to face your fears. Being nervous is fine, just don’t let it get in the way of sucking my dick.”

“What about my parents, though? I think they’re already asleep, but…”

“Don’t worry about it. They won’t–” You can hear a faint knocking from downstairs, and a muffled voice.

“Rick, what was that?”

“Look, don’t get mad, but I tied your mother down in the basement, and I locked your dad outside. Seemed like the safest thing to do, given the circumstances.”

“Rick!” You move to get up– this night is really not going the way you’d envisioned– but he stops you with a hand on your head.

“What! Y-you don’t want them walking in, do you? Seeing their little girl getting her pussy rammed open?”

It’s one little concession. They can wait, they were being annoying earlier anyway. Plus, it feels naughty. You give him a shy smile from your place at his feet, and the grin he returns is indecent. “Thaaa–eeugh– thaaat’s my little rebel.” He pulls out the chair from your desk and sits in it, slouched, long legs spread wide. His white lab coat drapes off the sides, rather elegant.

You watch, very aware of your heart beating, as he undoes his belt and his fly. Lifts his hips and shoves his pants down enough that you can see his underwear, and through the thin white cotton, the outline of his cock. You know you’re not very good at concealing your emotions; your disbelief is evident.

“Wh-what? What’s with the face? You’ve never seen a dick this big before?”

“I have! Just never in…person.” You shuffle on your knees to get closer.

“Shit. What kinda porn do you watch?”

“The nice kind! With kissing.” This series of admissions is embarrassing, but his response is worse: a noise of disgust.

“Oh, I bet. Bet they hold hands too, right? Whispers in each other’s ears and it’s soft lit in a-a room full of roses. All that romantic shit?” He pulls the waistband of his underwear down too, and you swallow thickly. His cock lies thick and red against his stomach, his balls hang heavily. He has no patience for your wide-eyed staring. “What the fuck are you waiting for, an invite to prom? Get in there, a-and watch the teeth. That’s lesson one, no teeth.”

You grasp his cock and lower your mouth but he immediately stops you.

“Hey, hands off, that’s too– you’re not ready yet. Too complicated. Just your mouth, baby, yeah that’s it.”

You bob your head awkwardly, just at the tip, running through a mental repository of BJ tips from Cosmo you read when you were too young. Keep your tongue flat. Though, how could you not, his girth fills your mouth and makes your jaw ache. The one good tip you remember is to let yourself salivate. You wish he would let you use your hand, the skin is so hot and smooth, and soon slippery; he’s panting as he holds his shaft for you.

“Lift your skirt in front, tuck the hem in the waistband. Yeeeah, let’s see that pretty virgin pussy, spread those legs for me. No panties, nice. Ah– don’t– no touching yourself, hands on your thighs, baby. Uh huh. Yeeeah slurp it up, y-you little slut. How do you like your first taste of dick?” You moan helplessly, he laughs. 

“Th-that good, huh? How about when I call you a slut, you like that?” _Yes._ You shift slightly, so you can look up at him, and will him to read your mind.

“Y-you like when I use you, just, uh, use your mouth, fuck your throat so you can’t scream for mommy and daddy.” You plead around him, unable to respond. He’s ruining your makeup; you feel tears leaking out.

“Unnnf fuck yes, deeper, take me deeper.” He groans at your muffled begging. “So fucking sexy, you look– you’re so perfect like this.”

He brings a hand to palm the back of your head and moves you, controlling you at the pace he wants. You gag around him but he doesn’t relent. The sounds are all obscene: the wet squelching of his cock hitting the back of your throat, the slap of his balls against your chin, his rough, grunting voice.

“I-I want… you’re gonna– uhhnn–open your mouth for me, there you go. Tongue out. Like you’re visiting the doctor, you get a lollipop if you’re good. I wanna see my cum in your mouth.” He strokes himself rapidly, then a moment of stillness, and presses the head to your flattened, outstretched tongue. You can see banded smudges of your cherry red lipstick on his cock like waterlines. He holds your head in place when he shoots his load into your waiting mouth; you twitch in surprise at how it feels and tastes. Hot, salty, bitter.

He releases you, satisfied, and orders you to swallow.

You wrinkle your nose at it, and afterwards ask, “was it… did I do okay?” _Good, perfect._ You want to hear him say it again.

Rick rolls his eyes. “Ugh, I forgot how fragile a virgin ego is.” He tucks his softening erection back into his pants and gets up, nudging you out of his way with his foot. “Yes, you were fine. A little sloppy but you get points for, uh, being eager and willing, I guess.” 

You look at him, expecting more.

He doesn’t let the awkward stretch of silence last long. “Welllll looks like it’s past your bedtime, Have a go-eeugh-od night. Drink some tea, have a-a-a lozenge or something if your throat is sore.”

“What? You’re leaving? But– but you didn’t– I’m still a virgin!” Wet and ready, how can he possibly turn you down?

He turns on you as he’s about to step through the swirling green portal. “Really? Y-y-you— that’s fucking stupid, I just facefucked you and you think it doesn’t count? You’re still too pure to consider yourself a fucking adult? How about I fuck you in the butt next time? I can phone a friend too, give you another dick to suck while I cum in your ass.”

You blink, blushing furiously at the mental image that conjures. He notices this, and his mouth curls into a smirk. “How long are you in town, again?”


	17. Rick sucks at ice skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Ice skating with rick but he ain't too hot at it but reader is. Bask in the glory of having a talent Rick has got to yet. Thank got for classes amiright?
> 
> tags: swearing at children, silly fluff

Rick Sanchez is not meant for ice skating. He is too tall, too lanky. It doesn’t help that he is perpetually drunk, so balance is an issue, and he’s bundled up like an ice climber because of his self proclaimed ‘old man circulation’, which renders him perpetually cold. (He exploits this by touching the back of your neck with his hand and making you jump).

Yet, after insisting on lacing up his skates himself, and grumpily assenting to you correcting his mistakes, he steps on the ice confidently. Like a conqueror, hands on hips, legs solid. He promptly falls on his ass. You’ve never seen anyone fall so fast, and he wasn’t even moving. It was like a breeze had pushed him over. You think his talent for dance would translate to grace, or at least ability on the ice, but he flails his arms and manages to make the fall worse.

You skate back over to him, concerned, and offer a hand to help him up. He pouts, crossing his arms, tries to get up himself, fails, then accepts. You’re surprised he chooses to be mature and not pull you down with him.

He complains about his brittle old man bones and grumbles for the entire first lap around the rink, which he spends at the rail, but trying not to look like he’s at the rail, and also glaring daggers at younger, adept skaters. The second lap you coax him onto the open ice, but he falls again, in a spectacular tableau of windmilling arms and legs reminiscent of the Dutch countryside.

“It’s easy, Rick, you just have to be relaxed.” You skate circles around him, just out of reach in case he’s thinking of downing you with him. “And also, don’t tense up so much when you fall, you’ll only hurt yourself more.”

He yells obscenities at you, and at the sport of skating, and at winter in general, prompting curious looks from passing skaters. Lots of kids and their families here. Maybe this wasn’t the best place to bring him. You skate away, racing around again and wondering if you should pretend not to know him. But when you get back, he’s still sitting on the ice, back to the wall with his long legs kicked out.

You cut to a stop in front of him. “Come on, get up. You’re gonna get your pants all wet.”

“So?” He belches and takes a pull from his flask. A kid skates by, points and laughs. Rick’s eyes narrow. “A-alright fine. You can help me. Help me up here, I wanna get up.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t move, and you realize too late that he’s waiting for the sneering kid to come back around.

Like a striking snake he snags the kid by his collar and slams him against the wall. “Hey what the fuck are you looking at, you little shit? Y-you little punk ass little turd! You think you’re better than me? Make that face at me again and I’ll cut your throat with my skate, bitch! Yeah, that’s right. Go on, cry. Cry for your mother, g-get her over here, I’ll cut her throat too. I’m Tonya Harding up in this frozen ass wasteland you stupid fucker!” Rick’s eyes are wild, spit dribbles onto his chin. He belches in the kid’s face. “And if I’m—if I’m Ton— the old TH, that means you’re fucking Nancy Kerrigan. Y-you want me to break your legs? I’ll fucking do it, I’ll snap those legs like pair of light sticks at a rave. You think I won’t? Huh?!”

The kid is shaking and silent for a moment, in which you notice a wet spot darken the front of his pants. Then he bursts into tears, and it’s like an alarm that signals for his mother to come over.

You make effusive, insincere apologies to the scowling woman (“so sorry, ma’am, my uncle here, he’s… he was in Vietnam, never really came back. So sorry, you understand.”) before skating away swiftly, dragging Rick along.

“Worth it!” He shouts over his shoulder.

“Hot cocoa?” You suggest, once at a safe distance.

His first smile of the day, not that you keep track or anything. “Fuck yeah! Love me some hot cocoa with—with—can we get mini marshmallows?”

“Mhmm!”

“Fuck yeah mothafuckin mini marshmallows!” The ice claims him one more time as he steps from the rink to the mats, and he stays grouchy about it until he’s sitting across from you at a picnic bench, sipping from a steaming mug. “So, uh, how are you gonna try to kill me next? Bobsledding? You gonna make me just sit outside and freeze to death? I-I got no body fat, I’m not good in the cold.”

“Oh, we’re not done skating. I’m signing you up for classes. And I’ll buy you another scarf.”

“Meh.” He shrugs. “Pass. Unlessss…” He leers at you.

“What?”

“Let me fuck you in that– that dumbass sparkly little leotard before every class and I– I’ll see how I feel.”


	18. Demon Rick redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Hello there! I love the way you write demon Rick. I was wondering if you could do another fic of demon Rick this time with pet play and some blood play? Female reader. <3 Please and thank you!
> 
> tags: extremely dubious consent, general demon grossness, deepthroating, mild bloodplay and gore

Horns. He has horns now. Those weren’t there before, but they peek through his blue-grey hair, as little points of rusty red. He stalks towards you, limber, menacing. There’s a tail, too, swaying behind him, shaped like a spade at the end. No cloven hooves, though. His fingers are long and knobby, tapering almost to claws, and he flexes his hands as if restraining himself from excessive violence.

His image shimmers for a moment, and you see him as you saw him the first time: wan, emaciated, not quite human. You blink, dizzy, like you’ve been staring at an optical illusion too long. Which is he? If you get close enough will his horns be solid? Can those nails cut you?

You listen to the rain and thunder outside, trying to steel your nerve against the onslaught you know will come. You brought him back here, you can handle it. You are prepared this time. You want him here, this demon who calls himself Rick.

“You again.” His eyes flash with sinister glee. “I _know you._ ”

“Stay back.” You will command in your tone, brandishing a little wooden cross pendant inscribed with runes of protection and binding.

He smirks at that. “Oooh nooo! Someone go get—someone fetch a priest! H-how can I say no when you have that? Y-you really got me there.” He laughs, and beneath the deep, unsettling cackling you hear faintly a host of screaming voices.

You let out a shaky breath. Ignore them. Talk louder. “I have the contract on my phone. I— you made me waste an entire day off work with whatever demon nonsense you ‘seeded’ me with. You…”

“You called me here _again?_ How fucking stupid can you be?”

“I spent the whole day spewing—“ the memory makes you retch “— spewing your nasty frog spawn from every hole in my body. Yeah, I know it was you, from that… last time. Fucking disgusting. Clogged every sink in my house, and the toilet, trying to get rid of all of—“

“You _what?_ ”

“I barfed up your gross demon babies and flushed them down the shitter, you stupid asshole. What were you expecting, to come back and start a family?”

His face twists in fury, all amusement gone. “You wretched— y-you _ungrateful worm._ That was a gift, how _dare_ you?” The outline of his body fuzzes for a moment and suddenly he’s right in front of you. Your heart bobs into your throat. Through sheer panic, desire flickers in your core, that thrilling fear.

He’d left you with something more than his seed, something insidious. A halcyon call that whispered in your private moments: _me. Me. ME. Summon me. I will submit._ And stupidly, desperately, you had trusted him. The memory of his touch seduced you, left your thighs quivering in the dead of night after you awoke from a nightmare of him.

You can smell the acrid black smoke that curls off his pallid skin. He snatches the talisman from your hand and snaps it in half between his sharp teeth, spitting the pieces on the floor, like sucking poison from a wound. He inhales and sighs with a knowing smile, bites his lower lip. “You want me.”

“What? No! I–”

“Don’t. _Lie._ ” He grabs your neck, his fingers puncturing the sensitive skin. The pain centers you, helps you flow. He whips you down to the floor, forcing all the breath from your lungs and you gasp; he grants you no reprieve. You pull at his iron grip futilely. He tears the collar of your shirt with his teeth, exposing your naked chest. Lowers his mouth to your breast. His forked tongue darts out to taste your skin. He licks a swath up your sternum, leaving a trail of oily black saliva. You arch to him, his name spilling helplessly from your lips. This isn’t right, you already know he isn’t normal, but now you can see he isn’t even human.

“I-I’m gonna let you– I’m gonna release you.” His voice is raw. “Be still.” The threat is implicit. _Or else._ He is furious with you, at being summoned here frivolously, at your impudence. But his lust exceeds yours,and he will not deny himself. He grinds his erect cock against your thigh.

“What… Rick, what are you going to do?”

His tongue flicks out, two pink points on either side of your peaked nipple. You choke back a noise, restraining yourself from movement. He hums in pleasure, closes his mouth around your breast and sucks. His hips roll against your thigh, you feel his cock, hot and insistent. He raises his head. A string of saliva hangs from his tongue; his hand at your neck pries your jaw open and he lets his drool drip into your mouth. You splutter at the foul taste, but he won’t let you swallow it away. He forces you to taste it and sneers at you.

“Y-you know what I hate?” He burps. “The false piety of– of little pieces of shit who haven’t realized they’ve already been judged and condemned.” His fingers dip into your mouth, pushing the taste down your throat.

You glare at him, slurring your words around his fingers. “You’re not.. you don’t weigh my soul. That’s stupid.”

“I could,” he breathes reverently. “I could open you and pluck what I want.” He withdraws his fingers, tracing one blade-sharp nail in a line from your collarbone, between your breasts, your stomach, ending just above the pubis. The first cut of an autopsy, down the center line of your body, if he pressed hard enough. He only draws blood and with it a pure white singular pain.

A moan tears from your throat at the unexpected agony, yet you keen to his touch needing more– more of whatever he deigns to give you. _Why?_

“Why?” He answers your silent question. “Because you’re strong enough to resist and I-I like seeing you break. Because tormenting the souls of the damned is so fucking boring, and your pleading gets my dick hard. Because you– your voice shakes– you hesitate when you– you think you know what you want. A-a-and I’m gonna show you that you don’t.” His lip curls. “That’s why, you stupid slut.”

He sits back on his heels, straddling your hips, and you eye the outline of his hard cock through the thin material of his trousers. “Fuck you, Rick.”

His grin widens, his eyes light with triumph. “Stick out your tongue. Y-y-you want to win my favor, don’t you?”

 _Yes._ You pout, but do it.

“Theeere you go, that’s a good girl.” He grasps your outstretched tongue between his thumb and index finger, pinching hard. You whimper at the pain, unable to stop yourself from trying to squirm away from him, but he holds you by it, squeezing harder.

“You… you pathetic piece of shit,” he hisses. “You think you’re worthy? You think you deserve my dick? You think you deserve the pleasure I can give you?” You wanted him here. You had chanted the invocation, trembling at the power of the words flowing from your mouth.

He yanks sharply, piercing the slippery muscle with his nails and a gurgling scream rips from your throat, muffled by your own blood. It wells from the hole he’s made and fills your mouth with a coppery tang. You can’t get away, unless you want to rip the hole larger.

He holds you there, immobile, pulls his cock and balls from his ragged trousers. You emit an embarrassing sob. He’s bigger than you remember, his cock weighty and thick, and lined with barbell piercings along the underside of the shaft. Those are new. He shifts forward, still holding your tongue out, and thrusts into your mouth. His length hits the back of your throat in one motion; you gag in surprise, but manage to keep your arms outstretched, dig your nails into the carpet.

He growls, rolling his hips, his balls press against your chin. “ _Ffuck yes_ just as– as tight as your ass, damn, you take my dick well.”

You gaze up at him, seeing the carnal amusement he takes in defiling you like this. “Y-you can taste it, can’t you? Taste your blood as your mouth stretches around my cock.” He bites his lower lip; a strand of his drool drips onto your cheek, dribbles towards your eye. “That’s good, slut.” He fucks leisurely into your mouth. “Look at that face. So petulant. Y-you don’t even know what you want, do you?” His tail undulates behind him, in and out of your view. “But you know what I want.”

You sob around his thick length, clenching your thighs together. He withdraws from you mouth in a swift, sure movement, slides down, kicks your legs apart, and thrusts into your slick, aching pussy.

“Rick…” you breathe out, having stored up a litany of insults. They escape you now. Your tongue is a swollen, bloody ruin in your mouth. You keep grazing the wound with your teeth.

“What do you think you’ll say when death takes you?” His cock splits you open, his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips as he ruts you. “You want it, don’t you? His regard is glorious. What future will He grant you? What will you see?” His face, nose touching yours, is ghoulish. Sharp, crushing claws close around your neck. Air trickles away, and your thrumming need for breath and release run together like ink and oil.

Your vision blurs. A nimbus of light forms around him and he pounds you brutally. And you embrace him. You are flesh and bone. Tears stream down your cheeks. Abruptly he kisses you, his forked tongue stroking your injured one. His black saliva mingles with your blood. You spasm around him, far beyond pleasure.


	19. Author Rick x Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Rick as an eccentric, reclusive author with a looming deadline. You are the poor, unfortunate editor tasked with making sure he meets it. Good luck!
> 
> my friend [@another-sanchez-slut](https://another-sanchez-slut.tumblr.com/) asked for this (she asked for the first Demon fic too) and it has been my favorite to write so far. Thank you for indulging me :)
> 
> tags: angst, butt stuff, alcohol abuse

You scowl at the closing line of your boss’s email. _‘Let’s get those metrics up!’_ She isn’t clueless, only aggressively chipper, and wrapped up with fifty other authors and deadlines, most of them more lucrative than the one you have to deal with now. But he is your author. You championed his work, lured him here promising better compensation and creative freedom, while promising your boss the opposite: he’d be cheap, and you would reign in his worst excesses. No matter that his novels and essays sell mostly to mustachioed hipsters and grad students; he has stacks of awards that he never bothers to show up to collect in person, and his pedigree lends gravitas to an otherwise mainstream publishing house.

You click back to the long running email chain with him and begin to type your latest message.

_‘Rick-_

_I just wanted to remind you that the quarterly deadline is coming up. Expecting three chapters from you, plus the three from March, which I still haven’t seen. I’m covering for you with Maryann, but that won’t last forever. She and Paul are blinded by your talent, expecting something wonderful, so if you slide again, and I have to ghostwrite, they’ll see right through it (haha). But seriously, I need those pages. Please don’t bail on me–'_ You pause, then delete the last sentence and rewrite. You did go to bat for him, but he doesn’t need to know how much you have at stake here. _'Get me those pages by COB Monday. I don’t know where you are, or what you’ve been doing, but… pages. PLEASE.’_ You add your full signature block and check the boxes for both 'request a delivery receipt’ and 'request a read receipt’. You read it over once, then add, _'p.s. Close of business, as defined thusly: 1700 Pacific standard time. I know we had issues with that before. Now you know.’_

And, sent.

Before you have time to sit back and wait, a new message populates your inbox, and you can read in the preview line, the only content: 'Blow me.’

That insufferable asshole. You quickly reply. _'This is company-wide monitored email. The IT department can read all of this. Please keep it professional.’_

Then you sit there, clicking over to other work that needs to be done, but unable to concentrate. The preview notification in the bottom right corner catches your eye. That was fast.

_'To my dear Editrix– Suck my big hairy balls. Big hairy old man balls. Just come on over and pop 'em in your mouth. One at a time, they’re nice and fat.’_

So that’s what he’s gonna be like today. You tamp down the little flutter you feel at seeing him call you ‘Editrix’. He does that, when he’s in a playful mood. You do your best to keep these correspondences mostly about work, but they often veer to the personal in the way that anonymous confessions become intimate.

_'Get me those pages and–’_ And what? You were about to type 'I’ll think about it.’ You clear the line, then type: _'STOP IT. Also, send the chapters. Or just tell me now if you can’t, and we’ll renegotiate the deadline.’_ The emails fly back and forth, at just the right pace to keep you from getting any other work done. You wish he had a cell phone, or even instant messaging on his computer, but he’s a paranoid old coot with unfounded notions about government spying.

The following exchange occupies an entire thirty minutes:

_'Swangly old balls here. Get your swangly old balls, aged to perfection, 70 years. Nice and musky, notes of cedar and blackberry.’_

_'I can’t believe they gave you a Pulitzer. Award winning writing, right there.’_

_'Don’t forget Nobel-nominated. Voice of an ironically self-hating generation, baby.’_

_'Please just tell me now if you’re going to miss the deadline. Or better yet, send me what you have, and we can work from there.’_

_‘What if I have nothing?’_

That would be a disaster. _'That’s okay. Just tell me what’s going on and I can and WILL help you.’_

His final email is cryptic. _'Cloud. 34 Highway 9. Just past junction 236.’_

You check the time. The back and forth of the conversation took over an hour, and it’s now close to 11 a.m. If you dash out now under the pretense of lunch, you might be able to make it back under minimal suspicion.

**

The drive takes longer than you anticipate, partly because, as you wind into the foothills, and then the mountains, your phone’s signal cuts out, and the navigation function gets spotty. It’s pretty up here, though, and the trees grow tall and ancient. Sunlight filters through the canopy less and and less as you go further into the forest, motoring up switchbacks and inclines that draw your hand to the e-brake.

You’re nervous, you acknowledge to yourself, and not just because of the demanding route. Anxious not only to see what kind of mess you have to clean up, but just to meet him. You play out conversations idly in your head: _“Well, well, if it isn’t my Editrix. What parts of me are you here to cut away? Will you gut me like a fish? De-bone me?”_ But stop yourself when you realize they’re flirty.

Rick Sanchez, for all his faults, has been a consistent source of entertainment. You’ve met him in person only once, and then in passing– at a gala where you were both too drunk to make an impression, although you vaguely remember him usurping the stage to make a lewd speech about redheads. That was just after you’d signed him with your publishing house, but everyone was too star-struck to be offended. You believe in him, in his work. When he isn’t being a recalcitrant ass, semi-regular correspondence with him keeps your work day tolerable, although getting him to meet deadlines is historically unpleasant, for all involved. Maybe he’ll be different in person.

The house the address leads to is on a steep hill at the end of a winding dirt road, far removed from the highway. Uneven stilts keep it level; you are reminded of Baba Yaga’s chicken-legged hut. At any moment it could shift, move its bulk elsewhere, swaying and lumbering.

He throws open the door a moment after you knock, and you finally get a sense of him. He speaks much like he writes: unvarnished, crude. But there is a transcendent elegance in his works which his physical presence doesn’t match. His limbs are thin and wiry, with the sort of hardy strength earned by cypress trees which grow bowing to the wind. He has the slightest bit of a paunch, like a camel’s hump, but probably full of whiskey, as there’s a half empty bottle of it in his hand. His metabolism’s only concession to age and abuse. You can’t imagine he gets much exercise other than chopping firewood.

His lip curls; he declines to shake your hand. “Take your shirt off.”

“What?”

“I said take your fucking shirt off. Blouse, whaa-eeurgh– whatever. It’s loud and ugly. It’s distracting me.”

You look down at your cute white top, delicately patterned with pink flamingos. “I think I have a change of clothes in my car. Can I use your restroom?” As it turns out, you don’t have anything in your car, not anything clean, since you’d forgotten that you left a dirty gym bag in there. Rick goes into his bedroom, which gives you a chance to look around, though you really want to snoop. You can see him shuffling around, the door is ajar. Curiosity is powerful. What tantalizing secrets might he keep there? Or is he really just as mundane as everyone else?

The disorder of the cavernous sitting room suggests a life of nomadic thrills, however. A battered plain wooden piano against the far wall, where it blends in. He could afford better, and there’s room for a grand but sheet music in his own hand is scattered on the bench. Likely he can’t be bothered to go shopping. A typewriter the color of a ship’s anchor strains a rickety linoleum table, arranged to face a blank stretch of wall in the corner. If you sat on the ascetic stool there you wouldn’t be able to see the massive sheet of plate glass that faces the forest. Too many distractions out there? He has a chess table, with two solid chairs, and in one a stack of pillows balanced precariously in a lumpy shape approximating a person. A little origami newspaper hat on top. You wander over, inspecting the facsimile with amusement.

“Hey don’t touch that!” Rick smacks your hand away. “We– I’m in the middle of a game.” He had walked up so silently, he even dresses like a shadow, in all black.

_We?_ You don’t press it.

A beat up laptop serves as a paperweight on the floor. His one piece of technology, other than electric lamps, although he must get internet somehow. Even for heat, the only thing you see is a wood-burning stove in the tiny kitchen.

“We can get you a better laptop, you know. Even a whole computer. the company would pay for it.”

“And have it send the–eeuurgh– the US government reports on all the porn I watch? No thank you. Here.” He hands you a musty old flannel.

Attired in a borrowed shirt, which comes down to your thigh, you shuffle around awkwardly, waiting for him to invite you to sit down, and then realize he won’t. So you place yourself on the lumpy couch.

He offers you a hand rolled cigarette, which you refuse. He lights it and takes a pull, seeming to forget that he already has one lit in his other hand. He smokes them alternating. Smoke eddies in the air, rising to the beams.

“Don’t lie. If you found me like this with my brains sprayed all behind me like a red peacock tail would you first thought be, ‘oh no, not Rick!’ Or ‘oh no, my famous author’?” He slouches in an armchair, long legs kicked out.

“Are you drunk?’

“Usually.” His arms are long enough that he barely has to move to reach to the floor, and he comes up with a bottle of whiskey, not the same one he was holding before.

You clear your throat. “So, Rick. I’m not going to beat around the bush here. What’s going on with the chapters? Are you okay?” You do a second take and notice the clutter of empty bottles, and full ones. Most being used as paperweights for stacks of typed documents.

“Yee–eeeugh–ep. Toooootally fine. One hundred times– a hundred percent fine.” He swigs from the bottle.

“May I see them?”

“Nope.”

“So you don’t have them?”

“Yep…” He drinks again, then raises one side of his unibrow at you. “ _Yes_ , as in, yes, that’s a correct statement.”

You purse your lips, biting back a harsher response, along with the urge to throttle him. "Why in the world would you make me drive all the way out here just so you could tell me that?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. I sent you an address and you came. Have you satisfied your curiosity, or are you gonna waste more of my time?”

You stand, sighing. “Alright. You don’t have them. I… guess I’ll go, then. I should head back and figure out what I’m gonna tell Paul and Maryann.” It’s already near 4 p.m. Most people will be leaving work by now.

"That shirt I loaned you is my jizz rag,” Rick mentions, by way of reminding you to give it back. “You’re wearing at least a couple weeks’ worth of my dried semen.”

“Well.” You sit back down, noticing for the first time a revolver on the floor amongst the bottles. Could he be–? No, you dismiss the thought. “Is there anything that I can do to help you speed up the process? Do you need to brainstorm? Talk aloud to someone? Go for a walk?”

He snorts. “Really, you’d do that for me? Could we, I-I’m just wondering, could we, uh, sit in around a campfire and sing kumbaya? Get in touch with our feelings? Make friendship bracelets? Fuuuuck off.” He punctuates his tirade with a belch.

You suspect if you argue that you’ll relent, and do what he wants. But if you leave, there’s no other way you’re getting those chapters. “What if I stay here and just quietly keep you company?”

For reasons you’ll never know, he agrees.

But 'quiet company’, you soon realize, is not to be your role. After fetching you a different shirt, he putters around, doing everything except sit in front of his typewriter. It’s as if he’s trying to goad you into haranguing him, to give him an excuse to sneer and belittle you, though he did say to help yourself to the whiskey.

You jiggle your foot, arms crossed, staring out the window. What he really needs is a good slap, or maybe your hand around his throat. You smile at the image of that, shaking him by the neck like a cartoon. Or you could wrestle him to the ground, if you even had the strength– he’s looking pretty rough, you might have a chance– and straddle him. You squeeze your thighs together, imagining what it would be like to sit your hips on his narrow bony ones. He might grab your waist, pull you down, grind into you, surprising you with his fervor. You’d be able to feel his cock, hard and hot, through his trousers, and how desperate he would be for it, having lived like a monk for so long. He might pull at your shirt, get impatient with the buttons and rip it open, so he could see the shadowed curves of your breasts. Desire blossoms in your core, and you’re a little surprised with yourself, but the fantasy is undeniable, and even better, when the object of it is not fifteen feet away, oblivious. Your face flushes, you sip your whiskey, from a tumbler, like a civilized person. You would hold him under you, still by his neck, and fuck yourself on his cock, maybe in his bed, but, no, you don’t know what it looks like. Right there on the carpet, then, yes. Your knees might get a little sore, but how he would pant and whine and beg as you rolled your hips, unhurried, savoring his unguarded pleasure. And he would moan your name in that rough growl– how satisfying to finally put a voice to the words, and when you came it would be sublime, clenching around his cock as he pressed a thumb to your clit and–

You blink, startled from your reverie. God. Where had _that_ come from? The epiphany is stuck in your head now, though, accompanied by an insistent ache.

The only interaction he offers is a morbid question when he sees you get up to get water.

“How’d you, uh, how’d you want to die? Kill yourself? How would you wanna go?”

He catches when your eyes flick to the revolver. “Uugh, don’t worry, I’m fine. I’m just– this is just small talk. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Given it some thought. I can tell. Y-you’re one of those high strung types who-eeugh– who plans for everything.”

“Well… not violently. Nothing painful.”

“Really? But that would be the best time, you would get to experience the most excruciating, horrendous agony and not have to live with the consequences.”

You frown. “That’s what you’d want?”

“Nope.”

You shake your head. “Soo…?”

'Mid-orgy. Just– just aaaabsolutely filthy, raunchy, sweaty fucking. Like, balls deep in a girl’s ass, and maybe sucking a-a dick as fat as mine. And high as a kite, baby, just fucking loaded.” He grins at your obvious embarrassment. “Not your, uh, not your jam?”

You shift in place, tamping down the flicker of desire you feel at his indecent smirk, and at picturing yourself in the place of the girl. He’s smiling like he knows what you’re thinking, but lets it go, and moves off to some other diversion.

Afternoon passes to evening, and with it, Rick from the piano to the typewriter. You don’t hear it right away, the transition from notes to keys, but then you see in the inky window the reflection of his back, perched on the little stool, tapping away and you hardly dare to breathe. You watch him without turning, only this mirrored shadow of him, as if he’s underwater, or you are. Move, and you disturb the placid surface. There is something lurking there beneath, a profound and dreadful terror that holds him under, and founders any rescue.

His back is hunched, his head held low, elbows in. You can see his bald spot. You don’t know how late it is when you yawn, prompting him to dismiss you gruffly to sleep. He still doesn’t turn from the typewriter, or look at you, only snaps at you to be quiet or else sleep outside.

You climb the ladder into the loft, which occupies one side of the high peaked ceiling; like an attic open on one side, its floor is the ceiling of his bedroom. It’s what you imagined, as a child, it would be like to float up in the soaring arches above the nave, lofty and sheltered.

Still, it’s difficult to fall asleep to the inconsistent tap taptaptap ding! rip of the typewriter, but as exhaustion sets in, you think you start to hear the broader pattern. It isn’t evident at first, nothing about what he does is, except the lurid spectacle of his personal failures. He plays a rhythm, you can hear it, almost like notes and you fall asleep wondering what he’s composing.

**

You wake up to haze grey, can see a sliver of the window from where you lie. You climb down quietly, noting Rick sprawled out on the couch, drooling, his hand flopped down on the floor next to an empty bottle. Outside there is a calm sea of mist in the trees. It is silent, you are the only one awake and underway.

You pee and then take a freezing shower all in the tiny bathroom. At least it’s not an outhouse. There is a straight razor, cake of soap and shaving brush, its bristles dried stiff. No mirror. One extra towel, which you use to dry off, then wrap around yourself. It feels daring to step out of the bathroom like this, but Rick is still open mouth snoring. You pull on a long flannel shirt and thick socks, then shuffle to the kitchen.

Despite how tiny it is, it’s still hard to find things, but you eventually get the kettle boiling, and haul out a cast iron pan. Bacon, eggs and rice. There are no vegetables in the little icebox, but there is a basket of small, hard apples by the grimy window. You cut one up and it’s tart, but good so you cut a few more into slices. Two plates of food, two cups of coffee. He only has painted metal mugs, the kind you’d tie to a backpack on a long hike.

You put his plate and mug on the low table next to the couch, then sit in the armchair. Strangely, for a writer, he has few books, and they are so varied you can’t begin to guess a theme. Lurid erotica, a dictionary of Mongolian with its spine taped up, a multi-volume history of the battle of Stalingrad, a second edition of a textbook titled 'Radar and Laser Cross Section Engineering’, and a little children’s book about worms. It’s Saturday, so you don’t have to worry about getting back any particular time, though you’d rather not stay.

When the sun crests the canopy almost an hour later, Rick is still asleep. New bright light highlights the oily gossamer film on the surface off your second cup of coffee, and mourning doves coo outside. You watch Rick, listening to his breathing, Wondering how many times he’s passed out in the same spot, alone and drunk, and woken up the same way. You shove pity away. He wouldn’t want that, and he must resent the intrusion of your presence into his routine, but he should have known that missing another deadline would have consequences.

He stirs, saving you from having to resort to the engineering textbook.

“Hey, good morning,” you give him a small smile, which he does not return. “I made breakfast, I hope that’s–”

"Why’s it so fucking cold in here? You have to feed the fire,” he grumbles. “D-did you– I’m assuming you let the stove go out?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t realize, sorry–”

He swears and heaves himself up, swaying, with a hand to his forehead. He bumps his shins on the coffee table, but manages to swerve his way around any more obstacles.

“Your breakfast is cold,” you tell him when he flops back down on the couch. He looks at it, then at you, then gets up again, calmly walks to the bathroom, and slams the door. A moment later you hear violent retching, followed by a flush, and then the shower running. He emerges a precise five minutes later, towel slung around his hips. He is wan and skinny, and just unfairly tall. He hasn’t shaved, his eyes are sunken in dark circles, his spiky blue-grey hair hardly affected by the damp after his shower.

You swallow, suddenly feeling warm. Your eyes trace down his chest, to the bit of softness around his belly, and the sharpness of his hips. Are old men supposed to be sexy? Which one of you is the pervert here?

He saunters over to you with a smirk, knowing exactly where you’re looking, and takes the cup of cold coffee you’d left for him. He sips it, pronounces it ‘adequate’, and downs the entire thing. You tell him there’s more in the pot, but he’s already on his way, and you get a good view of his back. You bite your lip, imagining him pushing you up against a wall, just as he is now, kissing you fiercely, pressing his erection against you and– is he pouring liquor in his coffee?

He comes back over and sits sprawled on the couch in the towel, which opens perilously wide. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

In retrospect, you didn’t expect your next question to be catalytic. You hesitate asking it in the moment, but concern spills over, and you wish you weren’t impotent to help him. “Can you please stop drinking for one day?”

His expression darkens. “Y-y-you’re– you think you can come in here and– and make demands of me?”

“Yes! You’re _my_ author!” Immediately, you sense that was the wrong thing to say, but it’s too late.

His lip curls. “You know what I see when I look at you? Compromise.”

“Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me. You set deadlines and then back down from them. You make demands and bargain yourself back before I even have to say anything.”

“Well that’s a result of having to babysit a geriatric alcoholic who won’t act like an adult! I mean, it’s like I’m your tutor and you won’t do your homework! This imprint could drop you, you know. Is that what you want? We— it needed you when we signed you, but it’s doing great now, because of you!”

He belches and scratches his stomach. “Great. Glad to hear it. I finished the manuscript last night, I already had all the chapters for the deadline, I’ll take it to your competitors…”

You shake your head in disbelief. “That’s wonderful, why didn’t—“

“Because I fucking felt like it!” He snarls, rising, then swooping down to get in your face. He braces himself on either side of the armchair; you can smell the whiskey and coffee on his breath. “Y-you want— do I need a reason? And by the way, stop trying to change me. Stop trying to help me, cut that shit out. You’re not gonna– euugh– psychoanalyze, you know, probing question my problems away in two days. Here. Take it. I’ll get a-a-a another fucking bottle and you try to take it from me and-and see what happens. I dare you. You wanna see what kind of person I am?“ He’s breathing hard, his eyes shining at the promise of conflict. Drool dribbles down his lip.

What would he be? Would his anger ebb away or rage higher? Maybe he’s not meant to be sober. An insidious desire pools between your legs, and he doesn’t miss the blush that tinges your cheeks.

He smirks, and in an instant, hauls you up by the front of your shirt and twists you around, shoving you to the floor beneath him. Your breath is knocked from your lungs, you protest when he kicks your legs apart.

“Y-you think you’re special.” He is horizontal over you, nose nearly touching yours, and you stay perfectly still, like an animal that knows it’s being hunted. “What makes you special?” Somehow his towel hasn’t come loose, though his hips press to yours. You want him there. You feel his heat, his erection half hard against your thigh, and it takes all your will not to move.

“I don’t think I’m special,” you admit quietly. “I don’t have some magic touch or… or the right words. I can’t haul you from that pit. But I know you in a different way, Rick. I get to see the raw, beating heart sacrifice of your writing, the way it is when you rend it from yourself. Before it’s sanitized and packaged.”

His jaw twitches, he holds himself at this precipice between desire and confession.

“I don’t think you’re special, either,” you say.

He hums and rolls his hips against yours, sparking a jolt of awareness in your heated core. “W-why not?” He lowers his mouth to your jaw, places kisses there, and at your neck.

Exactly _why_ escapes you; you whine with need and he laughs. One of his hands goes to your hip and ghosts under the hem of the shirt. He seems conflicted between wanting to go slow and savor each caress, and needing immediate, straining intimacy. Those long, dexterous fingers find your slit— ‘wet for me,’ he murmurs— and sink into you, first one, then two. Curl up like a hook and stroke that perfect spot with his thumb rubbing circles on your clit.

“Rick…” You try to arch into him but he keeps your hips pinned.

“Th-that’s it,” he coaxes you, “this is what want, this is what gets you wet, isn’t it? A-a-a fucking disaster of a person like me, old alcoholic asshole fingering you like—” he burps softly against your neck and you smell coffee and whiskey again. Forgets where he was and starts over.

“You held out long enough, long enough to be, uhhh… proper, but I wanted to bend you over the moment you knocked on the door. You like that, huh?” He feels your pussy squeeze tighter. “You would’ve loved that, getting to show what a little slut you are. What if I had pushed you down to your knees and rutted you like— like Othello with Desdemona? You’re gonna take my cock next, yeah, that’s it baby, cum for me, you like that—“

The pleasure takes you gradual and sweet; you come undone in a slow, rolling tide, accompanied by his hoarse voice.

When you subside, he pauses, sitting back on his heels for a moment. His towel has slipped off, and you watch his erect cock bob slightly as he shifts. He looks down at you with a curious expression, as if capturing the sight of you in memory: flushed, eyes glassy and lips parted. Your borrowed shirt has lost a few buttons at the top, and gaps open, revealing your breasts. He licks his fingers to taste you, and smell you, and commands you to turn over, which you do, hands and knees.

“Y-you remember what I told you, right?” He spits onto his fingers, then puts them to the tight puckered opening of your ass. You flinch. “My—eeeurgh— my ideal time to— to die.” He pushes one in, then the other, scissoring them, opening the hole, ignores your whimper.

He forces your face and shoulders down to the floor when he presses the fat head of his cock to your ass. You dig your fingernails into the worn carpet and bite your lip at the initial pain when he enters you, pushing into the tight ring of muscle, and seating himself fully. He rolls his hips a few times, barely letting you adjust, groans your name. He starts fucking you hard and slow, deliberate. You will feel every inch, he tells you, and you take him willingly.

He takes his time, ruining you, his hand reaches for your clit, keeping you in an agonizing state of slow burning need. What he creates for you is fleeting, a contrast to the entropy he can’t help but inflict on himself and most everything around him. A mind like his, untended, will live out the days like a dying star, burning out and crushed under its own weight.

He pounds you to the floor, takes his fingers from your clit and grasps your hips. When he speeds up he clings to you, close to release. His cock splits you open and you moan, pushing your hips back to his, needing that sweet friction.

He growls, his hand fisting in your hair, his pace insistent. “Y-you like it rough, don’t you? You like taking it in the ass? Ffffuck you’re tight, you got a nice tight ass, and—and your cunt tasted so sweet and wet…”

You hear the desperation in his voice, the untenable loneliness manifested to lust. He comes with a helpless groan, incoherent, his cum making his strokes slick, until he pulls out. You are close to climax again, yet do nothing to relieve it. His cum leaks from your ass, probably gets on the rug— an antique Persian thing, you realize. Oh well.

He lies there next to you on the floor. No attempts to spoon, thank god. You sit up for a moment, arousal a low, humming note, and grab the closest bottle of whiskey. You take a swig, and hand it to him before thinking about what you’re doing.

He cracks an eye at you quizzically, accepts. He pulls you back down, flat next to him, tilts the bottle back and guzzles it.

You really should say something, but he preempts you. "Don’t try to save me, I’m a fucking wre—eeugh—eck. I-I’m like the Lusitania.”

You open your mouth to retort, then pause. “That… comparison doesn’t make any sense. You’re saying you got torpedoed by a German submarine and precipitated Britain’s involvement in WWI?”

He pouts. “ _No._ ”

“Well then did you just make that reference to sound smart, and assume I wouldn’t get it and therefore not challenge you?”

He belches, and you resist the compulsion to wipe the drool from his chin, or worse, lick it off and kiss him. Perhaps he’ll recover and allow you to ride him, or confide that he’d like to lick your cunt.

“D-do you know what I dream about when I’m— eeurgh— when I’m writing?” He rasps, drinking again. “It used to be perfect, I could transport myself and be there, without this— this malignancy, this parasitic…tyrant.” He stutters, and you wonder how he ever translates the mess of his thoughts onto a page. “Sometimes it’s worse than others. Some nights it just…gets worse. And I tell myself it’s not as hard as it seems, but I-I-I-I’m— I can’t…” His voice breaks, on the verge of pleading. His eyes shut and you look away before you see anything more.

“I need to get back,” you say, figuring he needs an easy out. “I’ll take the manuscript, Paul and Maryann will be thrilled, they aren’t expecting it.”

“Stay,” he says. “The days are too long alone.”


	20. Miami + Cop + Priest x reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: I love the idea of being Miami’s number one gal but also having him let other ricks fuck meee
> 
> tags: DP, eating ass and pussy, blowjob

Designer heels make a distinctive sound-- on marble floors, on wood, on stone and tile. You can hear the opulence as you walk, a rhythmic clack like a wind-up doll that makes your hips sway. Rick has friends, and he likes to show you off. He keeps you in style, sees to your every need, including many you didn't even know you had before you met him. He dresses you, adorns you with jewels and lace. Nails manicured in a fresh color every week, hair and skin pampered at the spa. You feel and look flawless, and there are few things more satisfying than seeing him smirk in appreciation when he picks you up and plays with you. He has many toys-- cars, yachts, aircraft, a couple islands somewhere-- but you delight in being his favorite, and he unashamedly spoils you.

Thus, when he summons you, you're there, and you're perfect. Red-soled stilettos, matching black lingerie from a custom tailor in Paris, to include stockings held up by garters. You throw on a sheer flowing robe the color of seasilk, apply red lipstick, and make your way to his sunroom, an open, airy space the overlooks the ocean.

You enter just in time to see Rick-- your Rick, the one you suspect owns the city of Miami-- snort a line of pink powder off a mirrored table. He raises his head, tosses aside his rolled up money straw. 100 dollars on the floor like trash.

"Theeeere she is!" K-lax gives him either happy feet or insatiable lust, rarely both. You saunter over to him, where he holds court from a plush leather armchair, glance down and see the outline of his hard cock through his linen trousers, and then at each unfamiliar Rick. Is this the start to a joke? A cop, a priest, and a kingpin walk into a bar… it’s not your place to question but you smile prettily at Miami. You know better than to speak first, and he reads you. He knows you front to back. He pulls you closer with a hand on your ass, you lean against the side of his chair.

"You woke me up from a nap," you tell him.

“I know." His hand drops to the back of your thigh, his fingers ghost up, under your robe. He grabs your ass, squeezes each cheek. "Took you long enough." He hooks a finger under one of the garters and snaps it against your skin.

You yelp in surprise, jerking away, but he holds you, moving his hand between your legs. His long fingers find your pussy bare-- he'd ruined enough of your panties that you'd learned not to wear them, nevermind that he likes destroying them just so he can buy you more. He dips in-- 'already wet', he observes, as if he's caught you in a lie-- strokes a few times, then starts rubbing your clit in lazy, distracted circles.

"Rick..." you protest weakly, heat rising from a mix of arousal and humiliation. He's handsy in public and private, but rarely this bold about it. You meet his eye with a pleading look. 

"You seemed like you were getting bored, you said you wanted something a little different." He gestures at his friends.

You squirm, knowing those two Ricks can see right through your robe. "I meant, like, I wanted you to take me to the Maldives for a long weekend!"

One side of his unibrow quirks up in warning. "Whose bed do you sleep in?"

"...yours."

"Mhmm, a-and, uh, whose dick do you suck?"

"Whose pussy do you eat?" You pout.

He rises swiftly, graceful and tall, his hand goes to the back of your neck, like holding a misbehaving animal by its scruff. You can see his sclera tinged blue from the drug. He flicks his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. You know he could make this all go away. He doesn't have to remind you, the surroundings do it for him. An empire of wealth, with him at the center. Everything is replaceable, even you.

You muster a contrite innocence. "Yours, papi."

"Louder, pet. Say it so our friends can hear."

"I suck your dick, papi." You flush, embarrassed, especially with the way that priest is watching you. 

Miami grunts, kisses your forehead, then turns you around, holding your shoulders. "Only mine," he tells them. "Ass, pussy, hell, her tits. Get cum in her hair, I-- eeurgh-- I don't give a fuck. Her mouth is mine."

To you he says, "Y-you're gonna be on your best behavior, show our guests here a good time. You got that? You-- I don't care if you bitch and whine and gripe, and I guarantee you Father Rick is gonna-- he'll go straight for the ass, and you're gonna bend over and spread those cheeks for him and sing like you're the goddamn choir soloist."

"What about the cop?"

"Uhhh, he's... shy, but he can be a little more creative since he isn't worried about sin."

You eye the priest, whose vestment is wrinkled, and the cop, whose uniform is crisp. The priest slouches, drinking from a bottle of whiskey, openly staring at you, though his cheeks tinge red when he's caught. He doesn't look away. In contrast, the cop sits up straight, determined to meet your eyes if he dares to look at you at all. There is a vodka soda, untouched, on the side table.

Miami pushes you towards them. "Have fun."

"What about you?"

"You think I'm not gonna join in? I'm-- this isn't just for _you_ , selfish thing, I like watching how you--eeugh-- take a dick... or two. Get to work, pet."

Maybe it’s because you’re still drowsy from your nap, or because he’s being high-handed and presumptuous, or because you like the way his eyes gleam when you’ve disobeyed him.

Whatever the reason, it results in poor risk assessment. You know, as you shrug out of your gossamer robe and let it fall to the floor, that you are playing with fire. You give Miami a coy look over your shoulder, and go to the Priest. He already has his legs wide, and his cock in his hand, pulling on it in long strokes. Good thing too, you didn’t want to have to fumble with that cassock. Get on your knees, meet his eyes, return a smile when he bites his lip. You shoo his hand away, grasp his shaft, and give it one slow, deliberate lick from base to tip, making sure Miami can see. You hear glass breaking— might be a crystal tumbler dropping on the floor.

You rise more gracefully than normal, thanks to Priest’s proffered hand, and turn to the Cop. He watches you with a slack, awed expression, but has the presence of mind to undo his belt and fly. His cock is just as impressive as Priest’s, and he quivers in anticipation, Miami's warning forgotten. This time, you bend at the waist, bracing your hands on his thighs, and take his cock deep in your mouth. He shudders, giving a breathy moan as his head falls back. To your side, you hear Miami mutter a string of expletives, though you catch only _carajo_ and _puta madre_. You release his length with a pop, straighten up, and find Miami looking at you over his glasses, grinning around his toothpick.

There’s a dusting of pink on his upper lip, which he wipes away. That smile is not a good sign. That smile is dangerous; he's been waiting for an excuse to kick down a sandcastle and you just gave him the perfect chance.

"Are you trying to—“ Miami’s hand flexes and relaxes, "—y-you like showing off, don't you? Showing everyone your pretty toys and your tight little ass and your pussy. You like showing how flexible you are, h-how _willing._ Come-- c'mere." You do, and he chuckles when you drop to your knees without being told-- 'my well trained _slut_ ' -- but smacks your hand away when you try to touch him. He nods to one of them over your shoulder, a moment later you feel calloused hands on your hips. Must be the police officer. No one gets rough hands from preaching. 

"Please, papi, I'm sorry." You don't resist as Cop pushes your shoulder down. 

He ignores you. "Whichever hole you want, just don't let her cum." You let out a frustrated whine at his pronouncement.

"Ohhh fuck. I-I can see why you, uh, keep-- why you spoil her." Cop rubs the fat head of his dick up and down and your slit, through the moisture; you buck back impatiently, yearning for more. 

"Go ahead, taste her before you fuck her, if you want. S-she likes having her asshole licked too, if you-- if you wanna get her really riled up." Miami unzips and you watch, desperate and hungry, as he pulls his thick cock out, thumbs over the swollen tip.  
You are supported on your hands, but fall to your forearms when Cop lifts your hips higher and buries his face in your cunt. He takes his time, his gentility making the denial of your pleasure even more torturous. He licks your clit, teases it, then his tongue dips in your pussy, tasting the slick concentration of your arousal. His moans echo your own, it's like he’s never let himself near anything like you, and he savors it, intoxicated by the decadence. When at last his tongue flicks over the tight puckered hole, you gasp, look up at Miami again. Even at his feet, he holds you aloft, gazes at you and you gaze back, an exchange of worship. He bites his lower lip as he takes in your pleading, flushed face, his fist pumping his erection. All right there, so close, he knows how much you love to take him in your mouth, how thoroughly and gratefully sloppy you get showing your appreciation after he presents you with new jewelry or a set of keys to some sports prototype. But he balances that against hearing you whine for his cock, and lets you suffer.

Cop luxuriates in you, in your taste and scent, coiling you up only to pull back. He won't give you a finger though, even when you wail your need to be filled or fucked, or just to cum already. He raises his head when he feels you start to get too close. Your legs are trembling, and you and Cop must both look to Miami for guidance. He shakes his head, chastising, amused.

"W-what do you-- what's the verdict, Officer? You ever tasted pussy that good?"

Cop grunts, rising, hauling you up with him. "Sweet and wet. Discipline problem. You never really tell her 'no', do you?" 

Miami stands too, stripping his loose silk shirt over his head, leaving only his gold cross dangling from a thin chain. Nothing you haven't seen before, but in your heated state the sight of his lithe torso inflames you further. Many times, on his jet, his yachts, private beaches and islands, you’ve traced those sharp hipbones with your tongue, the only way he tolerates anything less than instant gratification: you’ll end up with his cock in your mouth and you know how to tease him and make him like it… although your stunt with the Priest and the Cop might have pushed him too far.

"How-eeurgh- how you doing over there, Father?"

"Just-- just fine, thank you. Feeling blessed this, uh, this blessed day." He clears his throat. "It's Sunday, you know that, right? Why do you always invite me over when you know I have to give a sermon?"

Miami laughs. "Trying to keep you honest like the rest of us." He doesn't interfere when Cop pulls you onto his lap, where you straddle his narrow hips, or as you huff out a breath of relief sinking onto his cock. He fills you, stretches you so well, you think for a moment this is all you've ever wanted, forget the pampered luxury. You try to roll your hips, but he holds you so you can’t get any friction.

As you squirm, whining, Priest gets up. “I-I-I, uh… I haven’t -ahem- indulged in awhile.” You hear him rustle behind you, he stills you with a hand on your lower back, then you feel the drizzle of some cool, viscous fluid on your ass.

“Rick…” You moan. Not sure which one you’re asking. All of them? Priest massages the lube on your over-sensitized flesh, around the tight opening of your ass. One finger pushes in, the intrusion is almost too much with Cop already filling your pussy, but he adds another finger, scissoring them, preparing you for him.

“Ah, god.” The thick head of his cock nudges the hole and he presses, unrelenting, until it’s past the tight ring of muscle. You whimper at the sting, need it nonetheless.

“R-relax, you gotta relax,” Cop murmurs in your ear, but you can tell he’s restraining himself from pounding into you.

Priest utters a string of blasphemy as he penetrates you— “je—eeurgh—eeesus _fucking christ_ y-you’re tight, you got a tight little ass, fuck you feel good...” His grip is bruising, and he sounds out of breath when he’s finally seated as deep in as he can go. 

“Papi, can I please, I need to…” You keen at the exquisite ache from each thick cock in your ass and pussy, crave more. 

“No.”

“Papi, _please._ ” Cop and Priest start to move in tandem, Miami grabs you by your hair and wrenches your face towards his crotch. His dick is right there for you, his pendulous balls too, and you look up at him through your eyelashes. That usually works.  
"Pout at me all you want, slut, y-you, uh, fuck you look so hot _carajo_ you're so gorgeous sucking my dick-- _tan preciosa y cariño y..._ " He groans, pushing his cock down your throat and holding you there by the back of your head; your eyes water, you swallow around him, the girth forcing your tongue flat and making your jaw ache. Whatever pleading sound you were about to make is muffled, and the grunts and moans of the three Ricks enjoying themselves drown you out anyway. 

You are readily destroyed. Miami fucks your mouth, smearing your lipstick with his thumb, his hand tangled in your hair. The Cop rips one cup of your bra, by accident, but doesn't stop there, realizes what he done, and that he likes it; he tears the other one for good measure and kisses your tits as they bounce in his face. Behind you, the Priest, so quiet and restrained, groans the loudest, holding your garter belt like a rein as he reams your ass. At some point one of the garters snaps, your shoes come off, Cop's fingers dig into your thighs and put runs in your stockings.

Together they pant and rut, pounding into you mercilessly, unheeding of your pleasure. You begin to chase it anyway, regardless of Miami’s earlier warning, helpless to resist. You float along a soft, radiant delight at being at the center of all this, and a warm swell of affection for Miami-- he said this wasn't for you, but he lavishes you with attention and you adore him for it. Caresses your jaw even as he forces himself down your throat, smirks at your tears and snaps at you to keep your eyes open.

The Priest comes undone first, what’s left of his repression vanishing in a glorious, profane litany, and the Cop gets dragged along with him. Their fat dicks drive into you, separated only just, and you cling to the officer’s shoulders, feeling like you’ll be split in two. Priest takes pity as his strokes in you grow slicker from his cum, reaches a hand down and presses your clit— Miami notices and swears at him _‘coño’_. Swipes once- twice—

You squeeze your eyes closed against Miami’s fury, he pinches your nose shut. “D-don’t you fucking dare, _la puta_ , don’t you dare cum, slut, I-I’m— you’re gonna swallow my load before you cum, fffuck you— you’re so perfect getting fucked like this, taking it all and begging f-for… unnnf.” He bites his lip, reveling in the ruin his friends have inflicted on you.

You sob around his cock, taste salt and bitterness a second later as he pulses at the back of your throat, makes sure you feel his balls pressed against your chin. And you struggle, even as his hips stall, and then he lets go and — _oh._

With breath comes a spectacular wash of pleasure, a lambent, delicate joy. All the tension releases, you spasm around the Priest and Cop, hardly aware of them. Miami pulls out of your mouth, giving volume to your muffled scream. He wants to hear his name, and he always gets what he wants. Something like ‘Rick’ claws from your abused throat in an incoherent wail, you sag, satisfied and spent.

Miami and his friends disentangle themselves from you, one of them deposits you on a low couch. You curl up. They clean up, get decent again and resume drinking, observing the tableau of your defilement. Makeup and lingerie ruined, eyes bleary, cum leaking from your ass and pussy.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Miami’s eyes are blue again, he’s put on music but not his shirt. He retrieves a red jewelry box and crouches next to you. “I usually give you these _before_ I fuck you, always thought it made you more enthusiastic. Now I know you’re just a-a-a, uh- a big old slut for my dick.” He shakes his head with a grin, then opens the lid, revealing something luminous.


	21. Reader has anxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: Heh so i have bad anxiety and its acting up and i was wondering how Rick would react to it, im not to be annoying if i am, i judt need something to read and idk. Sorry -j

“W-why are you saying ‘sorry’ so much? Stop it. Stop saying sorry. Sorry is for people who’ve been convicted and are legally obligated to say it.”

“Ahh okay. I’m—“ you purse your lips, realizing you were about to say it again and Rick realizes too because he rolls his eyes.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell me about your day at work again, that—it’s gonna go down as the most boring two minutes of my life.”

“I was telling you about how I can’t go to work sometimes—"

He belches in order to interrupt you. “Yeah I know because you have anxiety. I get it. I don’t think the feeling is misplaced. If anything you should have more anxiety, your life is a train wreck.”

You ball your hands up, cross your arms, tap your foot. Every neurotic reflex to explain and apologize made manifest, except you can't bring yourself to say anything more. He'll just snap at you again and you don't want to bother him. The silence extends long enough to become awkward, though Rick is unaware. He drains his flask, tosses it over his shoulder (it lands behind your couch, the graveyard of his discarded miscellany). Uncaps the handle he brought and two-handed drinks from it. Drool runs down his chin. He stares at the ceiling. 

The silence is rent when he rips a loud fart. He waits a beat, then looks over at you solemnly. “The sanctity of this place has been fouled.”

It takes until the horrible smell assaults your nose to react. “JESUS Rick what the fuck! Oh my god! You couldn’t… walk 15 feet to the bathroom and do that.” You start giggling at the absurdity of what he had said to accompany it.

“It’s— I did it here because it, uh, it contains laughing gas. Everything else I’ve tried to cheer you up hasn’t worked.”

You try to glare at him but burst into laughter again. “Rick that pun—that’s atrocious. Were you saving it up?”

“Nope. Anytime I want baby, I can do it on command. Have ‘em—got ‘em all lined up, one chambered and ready to fire.”

“The puns or—?”

He fixes you with a look of perfect calm. Except then you hear a _‘poot’_. “Any time, any place.”

“You know you didn’t try anything else to cheer me up. Walking in with a handle of vodka and shorts so tiny I could see your balls hanging out isn’t… you know.”

He throws his hands up. “Well I don’t know what you were _expecting!_ ”

“I can tell you it wasn't farts. You wouldn’t just listen to me either. And I wasn’t expecting anything, although a glass of wine and a spa day would be nice.”

“ _Fine!_ Alright, fine. I’ll take you right now. We can go to a damn spa and you can unwind and try to forget how much everything sucks all the time but nothing’s gonna be different when you step out with your skin glowing and your nails done. Which is why I recommend this.” He holds up the handle.

Maybe he's right. It won't fix anything, not for long. Plus, you're tired. It's too easy to convince yourself not to go. It wouldn't be worth the effort, plus you would have to get dressed and talk to the staff. "Can we at least go somewhere else to drink? And not Blips and Chitz."

He pulls out his portal gun. "Nooooo problem, I'm getting bored of that place anyway. Not because they banned me for life, that didn’t happen. Come-- c'mon, I know a planet that's basically a spa but you don't have to interact with anyone and just breathing the air itself gets you buzzed."

"Oh, so that's what you were trying to recreate just now? A planet of intoxicating gas?"

Rick grins. "Don't-- don't even try with-- don't try that with me. You wanna step to me you're gonna regret it. Now, chop chop, let's go, I don't have all day to coddle your feelings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all for your extraordinarily kind comments on the previous entries. I'm sorry I don't have time to respond to them, but know I do read them, and appreciate every one. Thank you <3


	22. Fashion show?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request: If you're taking submissions, could you write a fic where Rick wants to take the reader out to dinner/concert/some fancy event and the reader has to pick a dress but she has entirely way to many to pick from (story of my life)? So, she tries some on, puts on a show for Rick and he just can't take his eyes (and hands) off of her. Or if you have a similar idea to that, I'm sure that would be great too! haha Thank you! Love your stuuuuuff
> 
> tags: Plumbus

"Which one?" You pick two dresses from your 'maybe' pile, holding each one in front of you in turn. "This one or this one? Oooh, or maybe I should go with red."

"They are both beautiful. Red is a beautiful color on you. Please continue to ask for my opinion. This is a topic I care about." Rick sits with uncharacteristic patience on your bed. He hasn't pulled out his flask for a good thirty minutes, also odd, but he's being so nice, you'd rather not question it. 

"Okay!" You chirp happily, throwing aside both and going back to your closet. You're wearing only a cute matching bra and panties, patterned with little daisies. He had commented, "yes, that underwear and brassiere are: adjective 'cute'", when prompted. Good enough.

With a few more dresses in hand, including a blue sequined number you think he'll go crazy for, you sashay back over to him. You hold it up, then do a little twirl. "Well?"

"It is beautiful. You are attractive. Let us initiate sexual intercourse."

"Thank you!" You flush at the rare, sincere compliment, and sit on his lap, wiggling a bit.

His back is ramrod straight, though his arms come up and hold you loosely. "Oh. Yes. Baby. Just like that. Give me more."

You make a 'hmm', shoving away the unease that creeps up your spine, the instinct that whispers that Rick would have snapped at you to put on the first thing you saw, and dragged you through a portal to some dive. You lean in, about to kiss him, when the bedroom door slams open. 

"Rick!" You shriek, bolting up and looking wildly between the one on the bed and the one who just kicked open the door. "But I-- you-- I thought..." 

He gives you a bemused look, as he pieces together what's been going on. "How long have you been talking to that thing?"

"45 minutes, maybe?"

He snorts. "Jesus. And you-- I'm taking you didn't pick up on anything, y'know, out of the ordinary? Nothing seemed off to you?"

"I mean, I thought you were being nice because it's our anniversary." You cross your hands over your chest defensively.

His mouth presses into a thin line. "Oooookay, right, of course. Anniversary. Of the first time you sucked my dick, I'm guessing. That's all I'd keep track of. By the way, that's what you're wearing? You know my feelings on--eeurgh-- on underwear."

"I thought it was cute! Ri-- that thing agreed with me-- _oh my god._ " Comprehension hits, along with a wave of nausea and self-loathing. "You made a-a- some kind of boyfriend robot!"

He scowls, probably at the word 'boyfriend', but you jab your finger at his chest. "I was grinding on that thing! I felt it--" 

He grabs your wrist, holds it as you struggle. "Quit it! That's-- it's not a robot. And I-I-I'm-- I should be offended that you think I would accept such shoddy workmanship from myself. That thing's a plumbus! It's a piece of shit consumer electronic garbage mass produced in a factory!" He starts laughing in your face. "A-and you! You fucking fell for it! Holy shit, this is-- this is too good!"

"Rick!" You whine, wrenching away from him. "Stop! Stop laughing at me!"

But he's too far gone already. "If I-- if I hadn't come in when I did you would've-- you would've been riding that tiny little plumbus dick, oh my god! This fucking priceless!" He doubles over, howling tears of laughter.

You look again at the thing on the bed, which warps and bubbles before your eyes, reforming into a regular old plumbus. "I didn't know they could do that!"

Rick recovers, eventually, calming down enough to drink from his flask, and you make half hearted excuses for not realizing sooner. "Don't try to play it off like that, you're never living this down. Now put on some pants or-or wha--eeurgh-- whatever. I forgot to make reservations so we're going to Blips and Chitz."


	23. Rick killed the radio star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Rick and fem reader arguing over what to listen to on the radio. I imagine Rick like older music and reader likes a mix of a lot of stuff.

“Ugh, seriously? _Mumford and Sons?_ I-I-I-I’m— I’m fucking you cause you got a tight snatch, not because I care about your hipster music. Turn that shit off. O-or change it, I don’t care.”

You glare at him, “Rick, I’m driving and it’s my car.” But you hand him your phone so he can look through your music.

He grumbles, swigs from his flask as he scrolls. “We could’ve just portaled there, what’s so special about eighty miles of highway?”

“It’s scenic! Look!”

He doesn’t. “Pass. I’m more impressed by the amount of shitty music one person can accumulate in— how long have you had this phone? Oh, wait, here’s something.” He taps it and a moment later, a bass solo comes on. He cranks the volume way up and leans back, satisfied.

“Rick, what is this?” You have to shout. “Can you turn it down? I can’t hear you.”

He turns it down briefly, says “no”, then turns it back up. The bass solo rolls into a heavy riff with guitars, and then you recognize the song as Black Sabbath. Figures. Old man, old music.

You demand to choose the next song, and he rolls his eyes through 2 minutes 43 seconds of Wax Tailor. He progresses through a list of more and more suggestive songs, from Tie Your Mother Down to the Lemon Song, and ends on Brown Sugar.

“Rick, is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

He grunts and points at the radio when Mick Jagger sings ‘you should have heard him just around midnight’. Leans his seat back and adjusts his half hard cock in his pants. Really, an old man should not have this high a sex drive. And you have to wonder if he actually listens to the rest of the lyrics. He vetoes your next two songs 20 and 15 seconds in respectively: Good Ol Alcohol and 10 A.M. Automatic, with more invective about brain-rotting hipster shit, though you were hoping the message of either of them would resonate with him. He starts choosing longer and longer songs, culminating in a 14 minute track from the Who, at which point you swipe your phone away from him. 

"That's it, we're done. NPR it is."

"What? NO! Fuck that shit! You-- i-i-if I have to listen to Birdnote one more time--" 

"Learning is a good thing, Rick, or are you not going to admit that you didn't know there were more types of birds than just BirdPerson?"

He reaches into his lab coat and you tense, thinking he's going for the portal gun, but only comes away with his flask. "Come-- c'mon, lemme choo--eeugh-- lemme pick one more. It'll be worth your time, I promise."

You hand the phone back without argument, knowing he'll just wheedle you until you relent anyway. He scrolls through once again, not missing another chance to sneer at your music library ("an all mandolin cover of Avenue Q, _really?_ "), but finds something that makes him grin.

"Fiiiiinally, I-I knew you had it in you, baby. You thought I was trying to-- to send you hidden messages in my song choices? Here you go."

The first dulcet words of Area Codes come through the speakers and you burst out laughing. "Oh, do you?" You ask in response to the lyrics.

He grins suggestively, and proceeds to play every song about asses he can find... except he misses one. You gesture for your phone, which he returns to you with suspicion. 

"We're almost there," you tell him. "I just really want you to hear this, I think you'll like it." 

Rick frowns, tilts his head, then smirks when he recognizes it. "Y-you-- are you sure? Your neck? Your back? Y-y-you really want me to eat your ass, baby? Mmm... Sure, I got you. Hell I don't give a shit if we're almost there, this is taking too long, pull over. I want-- I gotta lick that pussy right now."

"Rick!"

His voice goes low and rough, amusement gone. "Pull over. Now."

**  
Rick’s music, in order:  
NIB- Black Sabbath (for the bass part)   
Tie your mother down- queen  
The Lemon Song— Led Zeppelin  
Brown sugar- The Rolling Stones  
Area Codes -- Ludacris ft. Nate Dogg

Reader’s music, in order:  
Seize the Day -- Wax Tailor  
Good Ol Alcohol -- Mooney Suzuki  
10 A.M. Automatic -- the Black Keys  
Mandolin cover of Avenue Q (I don't know if this really exists)  
My Neck, My Back (Lick it) -- Khia


	24. Composer Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Rick is a genius composer and musician. He's writing an opera where you're the lead soprano, and you're required to work with him. Unfortunately.
> 
> tags: deepthroating, anal sex, hand kink, fingering, biting

Rick Sanchez is a man who invites surrender. Hundreds of people, all at once, commit months of their lives in service to his vision, an alternative existence he renders. You could be part of something great. No matter what he demands-- long hours, mindless repetition-- inspired, they submit, and he is paid in their dedication and perfection. 

You first met him years ago, saw him from a seat on the mezzanine, rather, when he made a special appearance to conduct the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. You can’t, for the life of you, remember the program now but in your mind are fixed two impressions of him: the tall, austere man who had walked out onstage and the conductor. When he bowed he revealed a bald spot in his unruly blue-grey hair, and had seemed not to care if there was an audience of one or five thousand. Then he had taken his position, raised his arms and the instruments came up like ninety marionettes, unnaturally silent (you got the impression that he berated anyone who rustled too much). The first chord was like a storm wall, with him at the eye. Every fiber of his body screaming at the orchestra with inchoate fury and as one they had roared back and you had been transfixed that a single person could evoke so much sound.

Now you are one of those hundreds. A particularly important ‘one’ but still just one. The opera he’s writing—as yet untitled because he’s feuding with the librettist—is his first new published work in over ten years, and you were lucky enough to be cast as the lead. An unusual choice, perhaps, but you’re glad for the opportunity, nervous, of course, but it’s best not to get wrapped up in all that. More than anything you’re excited, and especially so today, because you’ve been informed that he wants to start practices with you one-on-one. He’s been elusive at rehearsals, and pretty much every all-company event, with very little communicated to you or the other leads in terms of notes and direction.

“He wants to meet with you,” the director had revealed, apologetic about not having more information than that.

“Me and Antonio?” The lead bass, who you had a bit of a crush on until actually interacting with him.

“Just you. He sent me an address and instructions on a postcard, if you can believe it.” She rifles through papers on her clipboard, finds it and hands it to you, leans in. “Look, I’ve met him several times and it’s always been fine but he can be...difficult.”

You frown, flip the card over. A majestic white rooster is posed atop a fence post, and in the top left corner, _Missouri!_ spelled out in an arch.

“Maybe take someone with you, is all I’m saying.”

You shake your head, insist to Carol that you’ll be fine, and fold the card into your back pocket. He’s an old man in his seventies. What could he possibly do to you?

**  
The address in messy cursive on the back of the postcard leads to a fin-de-siècle building on a quiet street and not, as Carol feared, to an abandoned meat packing plant. Sure, it’s a bit dilapidated, but in a quaint way, or perhaps that’s just your nerves coloring your impression. You are about to meet a legend in person. He’s been built up in your imagination from that one image, one night. A supremely gifted musical talent, exacting, but fair. You’ve achieved success through some natural skill but mostly hard work and luck, whereas his genius is transcendent. 

You run through what you want to say to him when you introduce yourself. How much you admire him and his music, how influential it’s been on your life. You had written something out, embarrassingly pretentious and fawning, but had ripped the page out of your notebook and torn it up. No matter your adoration, he doesn’t need to hear you compare him to a ‘brave explorer’ the first time you meet him. 

You hum your parts to yourself on the way there, shoving down the creeping dread that maybe he really is as nasty and difficult to work with as the rumors say. You’re the lead soprano, though, he had to give approval for the final casting. He chose _you_. 

Even so, better stop humming just to save your voice. You hadn’t even had time to warm up before coming here, and it had been a choreography-only rehearsal day. You pay the cab fare, then step out onto the curb.

There's a butcher installed in a shopfront on the ground floor, next to a chiromancer with musty neon advertising ("Mystic Readings by Lee, Your Future Revealed!"), a druggist under a green cross, and a dark cafe, which will open later and attract a crowd of bohemians.

You walk up five flights of stairs, doubling back once because of confusing numbering, but find the right door at last-- number 519-- and knock.

A moment, then, “it’s open!” So you let yourself in. It is some of what you expect-- instruments and sheet music everywhere, a huge mess-- and some of what you don’t, including many potted plants. You pass into the sitting room, following the sound of the piano, and note that he has record players, three of them, and a gramophone. The more you see of it, the more you realize, it’s not an apartment for entertaining, though it is gorgeous-- high ceilings and tall windows with gauzy white curtains, gardenias and camellias and peonies make bursts of color among the sepia clutter of books. The only problem is that he seems to have forgotten about furniture, and that someone other than him might like to sit down. You wouldn’t be surprised if you checked his kitchen cabinets and found one plate, one cup, and one spoon. 

This place is too big for him, and he’s stuffed it with flowers and paper to keep it from echoing. You imagine him pacing from room to room, running his hand through his crazy hair, muttering to himself; sure enough, there is a path worn into the ornate rugs roughly from door to door, and in front of the window.

You reach the room with the piano and regard him there playing, wondering how many people get to see him like this. The grand piano is situated such that his back is angled to you, and you stop in the doorway. He’s composing as you watch, you realize, his right hand keeps playing while he takes a quill-- an actual feather quill-- dips it in a pot of ink, and makes a scratch on the sheet in front of him. Puts the quill behind his ear, plays it over, does the same again but switches hands, playing with the left and annotating with the right. He plays them together in a longer section and you watch his hands this time, the way his long fingers reach broader than full octaves. They are strong and sure, easily the most expressive part of him as he plays, for he keeps the rest of his body hunched and immobile. Terrible posture. You start to shake your head and then stop yourself. Were you about to _correct_ him?

When he finishes playing you step in to introduce yourself. Nevermind about the place being too big, it’s cramped and small-- the room is tiny and the acoustics are going to be terrible, you can already tell. Plus, there’s only room on one side of the piano for you to stand, and there’s a tall fern whose leaves will be in your face. "Mr. Sanchez, it's an honor to get to work with you, I've been looking forward--"

He doesn’t turn to look at you.“Yeah, I know who you are. Are you warmed up?”

“Uh, no… today’s rehearsal was just choreography and blocking.”

He stands abruptly, comes over to you and you are confronted with the difficult experience of having your expectations contradicted. He is so much older than that vision of him, age lines and bags under his eyes, a unibrow and a long nose. He is scowling and grizzled, hasn’t shaved today. His frame is lanky, topped by a shock of blue-grey hair like the dot on an exclamation point-- at least that’s still the same. The most pleasant thing about him is that he smells like gin. “I know it was, that's why I wanted you here today. But _apparently_ you thought it would be a great ending to your day to come here and waste my time instead. I take it you got the cock I sent?"

He leers down at you from his great height and you feel your face redden, though not entirely because of the brusque insults, and it takes a moment for you to realize he’s referring to the postcard. Without really meaning to, you imagine yourself rising on your toes to kiss him, steadying yourself with a hand on his rawboned chest. Would he have the same wildness as when you'd seen him conduct? Would his elegant hands go to your waist and pull you closer to him? Or would he push you away and laugh at you for stupid daydreams?

Yeah, probably that last one. You blush and stutter; he turns away with a bark of laughter about flighty sopranos and goes off somewhere, yelling over his shoulder for you to warm up. (Not quite accurate, he orders you to 'loosen your throat' and 'work that tongue', in a suggestive tone that makes you squeeze your thighs together picturing what his cock might look like, how he would groan and fist his hand in your hair...)

He returns just in time to hear your voice crack on a high note, which you pushed yourself to attempt. He makes no comment, only raises his eyebrow, _really?_ , and slugs from the bottle of gin he came back with. "Aaaalright, have you gotten all-- are you warmed up? Be honest, don't try-- I-I-I'm never gonna push you on this, your voice is the most valuable thing about you. Don't injure it."

You nod. "I'm ready. I have all my parts memorized too. The most recent versions you shared with Carol, anyway."

"Well aren't you the overachiever. That's great. Y-y-you want a medal or something? For doing your job? Just go--eeurgh-- go stand there." He motions to the side of the piano occupied by the plant. You do, batting the large waxy leaves away, earning another sour look. "Hey be careful! Don’t touch that, it's delicate."

"It's touching me! Can't you move it? There's no room here."

He sits down at the piano bench, places the bottle next to him. "Nope. Natalie was here first, you'll just have to coexist. Now, we'll start with the first aria, I want to hear your phrasing for the opening line." He cues you with the piano, and you sing and it goes well enough to lull you into getting distracted by his hands on the keys, until he snaps at you, 'posture! chin up!'

From there, any enjoyable quality the practice might have had deteriorates, to the point that you wonder why you ever wanted to sing in the first place. He moves on to another piece, playing the counter melody as you sing, but the time signature is tricky.  
You sing the first few notes-- 

"Late! Do it again."

Sing...

"Late."

Sing and fantasize about pushing him off that bench and slapping him, straddling him and grinding your clothed cunt on his erection, but no, that's making you flustered, thinking about his cock, and-- _what is wrong with you? Focus._

"Late. And flat." He picks up his conductor's baton (unusually long, wooden, like a switch) and taps the beat to cue you. Again and again, and when you sing it flawlessly at last, it sounds hollow to you. None of the emotion you had practiced to imbue it with comes through. He hears it too.

"Don't be so-- you're making it sound rote. You know, automated. Y-y-you-- this isn't an etude, this is your character's exciting debut at court and you're turning her into a fucking robot."

You press your lips together, wanting to retort that perhaps what he really wants is the mechanical perfection of a robot, because no human is good enough for his _brilliant_ music. Instead, you slap one of Natalie's leaves off your shoulder, eliciting a glare (from Rick, not the plant), and so it goes, for four and a half hours.

During this time, you earn a break after hitting a high C usually outside your range; he waves vaguely when you ask where the bathroom is. You stop to get water in the kitchen, but as it turns out, he really only has one glass, and he was using it earlier for liquor, so you must resort to bending your head and gulping directly from the tap. The long session is made even more unbearable by his insistence on using his quill rather than a real pen; you offer him a bic from your purse, but he shakes his head and grunts at you. You wonder how a man who produces such beautiful music can have such a rough, harsh voice; it sticks in your mind like a particularly catchy song. It’s all too easy to imagine him growling filth in your ear as he backs you against the wall, holding you by the neck and digging his long bony fingers into your skin just enough to hurt.

By the end you're exhausted, your feet ache and your throat is sore. He sends you off not when he notices you sway, but when your voice breaks repeatedly on one section. He recognizes overuse, and won't risk damaging one of his instruments. You're already dreading the next practice, which will be in three days. Enough time to recover, and anticipate what new ways he'll find to be a cranky asshole. Still, after you drag yourself home, and crawl in bed, you fall asleep picturing his hands on the keys, and then on you. Caressing you the way he does the the black and white, drawing emotion and refinement and delivering pleasure. You’ve already surrendered to his vision, have been for months, but now you fear you might offer him your devotion. 

**  
The next few practices go about as well as the first, which is to say, every hour is a slog. It’s a draining struggle to focus on the music and not errant thoughts of his tongue lapping at your clit, with one hand holding your hips down and the other tracing patterns on your ribs.

Everything about him should make it easy to dismiss your silly infatuation. His sarcasm and quick criticism, and inebriation and belching. The drool on his lower lip that he seems never to notice (you tamp down fantasies of licking it off), and the way he wears his pants belted so high you can see his skinny ankles. Thinking about what he looks like naked should _not_ be a source of such puerile curiosity— but it is, and one night in the dark, alone, you submit to the aching need and finger your pussy imagining exactly that, and now you have to live with yourself.

It makes you squirm every time he looks at you directly, and sometimes he catches you staring at his hands, like he knows what you did. Of course, distractions make you sloppy, and he takes perverse delight in making you uncomfortable; his corrections to your singing are cruel and swift. He has no patience for imperfection, and you aren't sure if he actually expects it instantly, but he makes it clear that mediocrity offends him.

You bring him a gift the third time you see him: the nicest fountain pen you can afford. You don’t wrap it, no bow. You want him to realize how ridiculous he’s being with the whole quill and ink setup. He accepts the pen without much acknowledgement, tucking it behind his ear, nodding a few times to see if it stays put. You give him a small smile, thinking perhaps this is the moment you break through his irascibility, but no. 

“The fuck are you staring at? Do your vocal—eeurgh— warmups. I’m gonna go take a shit, that should give you plenty of time.” 

You frown. Foul old bastard. Any inkling of a warm feeling towards him fizzles out, though not, to your frustration and embarrassment, the flicker of arousal you get watching his lithe form stride away. You glide and climb through notes and scales, and finish when you hear his footsteps on the wood floors coming back from the bathroom.

“Act III,” he announces, with no more warning than sitting down and beginning to play. You know the whole work well enough to meet the cue, but it’s a tricky open, with lots of low-high jumps and trills and accents. It’s a lively piece that tests you and you keep up as best you can, and at the coda he gives you a curt nod, and uses his new pen to make some notes.

“Good. Th-that was… acceptable. The crescendos need to be crisper, and don’t slur your transitions so much, you--” He winces suddenly, switches the pen to his other hand and keeps writing. He flexes his free hand, balling and un-balling it into a fist. Tucks the pen behind his ear and stands up, rolls his shoulders a few times, cracks his neck from side to side.

The slight compliment has the effect of swinging the pendulum of your emotion back the other way. Too far, perhaps, because you ask if he’s alright and he tells you to mind your own damn business, and _what are you, his mother?_ He doesn’t use the pen again, and you sigh in exasperation some thirty minutes later when he picks up the quill.

“Do you have something to say? Y-you got an opinion about this?”

“No.” Just an observation… that should go over well. “I mean, you’re kind of slowing this process down.”

“ _I’m_ slowing it down? You hear me making mistakes all over the place? You’re pitchy, by the way, you’re sharp on the decrescendos, I forgot to mention that. A--eeugh-anyway, I hope you didn’t spend too much money on this pen, because it’s about to go in the trash.” He takes a drink and goes to the kitchen; you follow him, incensed.

“Why not just give it back to me?”

“It wasn’t a gift?” He dangles it over the trash can. Expecting you to lunge for it? No, you’re too dignified for that. You cross your arms.

“It was.”

He smirks. “Y-y-you-- pouting is a good look on you. Cute. Te-eeurgh--eell you what. I’ll be gracious and return it to you, if you can answer one thing for me honestly.”

You hesitate, caught between the potential for danger, and immense curiosity about what he might ask. “... okay. What is it?”

His smile widens. “Why do you keep staring at my hands?”

“I…” Your breath catches in your throat, heart pounding. You can feel your face getting red, know how obvious it is and his amused expectation makes you blush harder. _Because I want them all over me. I want you to stop playing sometimes, and lead me to your bed and run them under my clothes. I want to suck on your fingers, middle and index, get them wet and see you bite your lip, feel your hard cock as you grind against my thigh. Before you fuck me I want you to curl your long fingers inside my pussy, slip down my body and kiss my clit and growl against my skin how sweet it is and how desperately you need to fuck me._

“It helps me.” You clear your throat, trying to think of something less lame, though this is difficult when your mind fogs with lust. “It helps me keep... time. With the music.” 

One side of his unibrow raises. He clearly doesn’t believe you. You can’t give him the chance to press you further, and he looks like he’s about to, so you turn on your heel and leave, returning to your post beside the piano. Tally the pen as a loss, and be glad that exchange wasn’t as disastrous as it could have been. 

When he comes back he smells more strongly of gin that ever, and whatever hint of flirtation there was is gone too-- he’s so acerbic and critical you wonder if you had imagined the whole thing. 

Weeks go by, however, and you notice he makes a point of gesturing more with his hands when you can see it, or maybe he did that before too? He’s careful never to touch you, instead using his baton to reach over and poke you. Ostensibly it’s to correct your posture, but he does it to annoy you and more than once you dream of breaking it over your knee and shouting at him to act his age (the fantasy of _not_ breaking it, and instead assenting to him bending you over the piano bench, stays deeply buried). 

The constant tease of his hands, and the irritating distance he makes with the baton, serve to wind you up every practice. He lures you, intentionally, you’re beginning to think, to crave his touch. You imagine what his palms look like up close, how far his long fingers would wrap around your wrists as he holds you down-- or around your neck as he doles out your breath to you, fucking you slow and hard and deep and growling that you sound just as beautiful gasping for air as you do singing.  
It is an unproductive and torturous obsession, but time until the premiere is running short and soon you won’t have to deal with him anymore.

**  
You let yourself in, like usual, one evening a little bit late. Couldn’t find your coat, and it’s been getting colder and darker. You stopped knocking weeks ago, the door has never been locked. You asked Rick once, wasn’t he concerned about theft, all the priceless antique instruments and things? His response was blase-- they’re all insured, and besides, who gives a shit? All the music is in his head.

Light remains only on the spines of buildings, and the sitting room is dim and chilly. The tall windows are open, the airy curtains luffing and billowing in the draft. Rick is hunched over in the only usable chair, eyes closed, playing a ten stringed guitar. His mouth is a flat line, jaw and shoulders held tense. He looks like he’s in pain. Again, you have the impulse to correct his posture, none of that looks comfortable, but the music he plays is exquisite and sensual. Immaculately beautiful, no strain.

There’s a lute next to him on the floor, and a mandolin, and a bottle of the brand of gin he always drinks. You don’t recognize what he’s playing. It has an improvised quality, transforming from melancholy then to pastoral, but he even makes the transitions seem natural. That’s just where the music is supposed to go, the next note he chooses is always the right one.

You thrill to watch his hands. First his right, spidering up and down the neck with incredible reach and precision-- he has perfect pitch, he had mentioned that once, though he bends notes for accent. Only when you look at the hand picking the strings does it register that he’s playing left-handed. The room is too dim, his fingers move too fast to really see. You can’t bring yourself to stop him, even though it’s cutting into rehearsal time. You wonder why you’ve never heard of him before as a guitar soloist.  
He plays deftly, entrancing, rooting you until the light fades completely, and you don’t know how long you’ve been standing there. All the color of the place is muted and dull, and the darkness carries the music to swell and wash over you. For once the feverish arousal that grips you nearly every second you’re around him abates and you listen raptly, transported and awed...

Until Rick notices you, and stops. “What the fuck? Wh-what are you d— how long have you been standing there? That’s not creepy at all, watching someone in the dark without— in complete silence. You happen to have a twin, by chance? Go around haunting hotels and asking people to play with you?”

“Uh, sorry. I’m here for rehearsal. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well you didn’t! And no practice tonight. I’m— you should’ve gotten my message.”

“Nope. No message. Not even a postcard.”

He turns on a floor lamp next to him just so you can see his disdaining eye roll. “Oh, aren’t you clever.” He sets the guitar aside, cracks every finger on one hand, then does the other. Makes a noise of relief when he lays his head back which sends your mind spinning to indecent heights. 

He cracks an eye when he doesn’t hear your retreating footsteps.

“Why are you still standing there? _Go home_ , take care of whateee—eeugh—ever lame soul crushing tedium you need. I’m giving you the night off.”

You don’t want the night off. “Okay. Thanks.”

He clears his throat right when you turn, as if it’s easier not to speak to you face-on. “I-I’m not— it’s no special reason, canceling it. I’m just going out tonight. You can come, I assume you have nothing better to do. Feel like drinking?” 

**  
You share a cab on the way there, although the first one hailed refuses to let Rick bring along his bottle of gin. So he makes you hide it in your purse, and the second cab takes you. He doesn’t even open the door for you, he gets in, refuses to move over and pulls the door shut, forcing you to go around to the street side. He gives the driver a name: the Winchester.

The Winchester is dark and hidden, a hole in the earth, the kind of place you can be anonymous if you want. Though, stepping out of the cab, you wouldn’t know it’s a bar at first, or open to the public. It’s an unmarked door on a blank stretch of brick wall. He knocks a stilted pattern, a moment later, multiple locks click open. The thought crosses your mind that somehow you’ve both completely misinterpreted the situation, and that he’s taken you to a sex dungeon when you were expecting a seedy dive with peanut shells on the floor.

It’s only a bar, though, and rather cozy. Rick is known here, and his entrance prompts cheers of welcome. Apparently he _doesn’t_ want to be anonymous. You follow him to the counter, and are amazed to witness the following friendly exchange with the bartender:

“Sanchez! Wasn’t expecting you! It’s been a long time, buddy. What, three years? Four?”

“Heeeyyy Perce, good to see you man! Too long, is the answer to that. Too fuckin long.”

“True that, brother. What’re you drinking tonight? And your… date?” 

Rick glances over his shoulder at you, grimaces, and sidesteps the question entirely. “Gin. Gimme the, uh, the Botanist.”

“Two?” Perce places two bottles on the counter without waiting for an answer. 

“A-a-and could you put in a couple orders of-- you know what, nevermind. I’m just gonna get smashed.” He turns to you. “Come-- c’mon with me.” 

With the liquor and two glasses, he leads you further in, to a warm lit alcove with a plush sofa and low wood table. Rick sits, pours you a measure and then one for himself. You perch on the end of the sofa, while he’s somewhere in the middle, long limbs sprawled out. 

This is the most you’ve ever heard him go without snapping at anyone (you) and it’s stunning. You must be careful, you don’t want to scare him back to criticism, or worse, complete silence. Topics, topics… you sip the gin he poured you and wrinkle your nose at the strong piney citrus flavor. It doesn’t taste as good as it smells, though it is now, for you, irrevocably associated with him.

Rick tips back his glass and immediately pours more. He slouches, burps. Saliva dribbles on his lower lip, but he just drinks more, cracks an eye to look at you. “Wha—eeugh—at are you doing all the way over there? Getting ready to jump? Y-y-you know you can bail if you want. You can leave.”

“No! I’m fine. It’s fine. I don’t want to leave.”

His long arm is draped along the back of the couch. “Well come on-- c’mere then.” He nods right next to him, less of an invitation and more permission for what he already knows you want to do. You scoot over, still awkwardly stiff. Drinking next to Rick Sanchez in a speakeasy strikes you as absurd, a surreal desire you hoped for but never expected to manifest. He has an opera to finish. You have a role to practice. 

It doesn’t matter. His proximity is making you warm and you stare at his long legs, wonder how it would feel to straddle his thighs, and how hard he would dig his fingers into your hips as he pumped up into you. 

Rick drops his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer. Effortless. He confides, offhand, “I’m writing this for you. After I saw you sing Lucia.”

“I’ve never sung Lucia. I’m not… that’s not really my range.”

“O-oh. Must’ve, um, been someone else. Turandot?”

“Rick, we’ve been working together for three months, I’ve been singing for you pretty much the whole time, how could you not--" He's being contrary, you're quick enough to realize that, but not enough to discern why. "I've done Carmen." (What soprano hasn't, at one point or another?) "Three years ago at the New York Met." 

“What? No. Who ca--eeurgh-res. Everyone’s done Carmen.“ His brow furrows. It must be the setting that makes him sound thoughtful. “It was Azucena. All the time, my whole life I’ve been composing, writing, breathing music. It’s--eeurgh-- it’s everything I am. If I’m not making it I’m listening to it. I-I-I don’t think I’ve ever even fucked anyone without something playing in the background.”

“ _Il Trovatore?_ That was pretty recent, the reviews said the part was too mature for me--”

“No no no, you-- listen. I’ve never wished I could sing until I heard you sing that part. I’ve taught myself to play every instrument that remotely interested me, give me four random notes out of a hat and I’ll compose something for you on the spot, and it would be _amazing!_ — you have a way, it’s-- I don’t know. In the phrasing. And the coloring, there’s a-a nuance to it. So fuck those reviews, you made that character-- made me think about that character in a new way.” As he stumbles through this explanation, you are struck by the impression that he writes music because he can’t express himself well enough in words. 

He falls silent after this confession, and it spreads to you; you can’t do more than mutter ‘thank you’. With rising discomfort, you mull over conversation topics and come up with nothing. He drinks more, not seeming to care that nobody is talking. He taps his foot along to the beat of the music playing over the speaker system.

“You like polka?” You seize on the idea, internally cursing at yourself for such a lame question. 

“Mhmm. I played trumpet in a polka band. Years ago.” He starts tapping the upbeat on your shoulder and you try not to squirm. He’s not snobby about music genres, you learn, only about good music, performed well. He reveals that his feud with the librettist has been settled, resolving the issue of the opera’s title. 

You cross your legs, squeezing your thighs together for relief. Just a little friction until you’re home later, and then you’ll slip a hand under your clothes. Your pussy is already soaked from his hand so carelessly touching you, you’ll be a wet mess by then, won’t take long. Slide a finger in, rub your clit. Could you do it with him watching? Another type of practice, he would stand at the edge of the bed with his baton, and you laid out, naked. _Rub your clit just until you’re about to cum, he commands. Now stop. Now do it again, get nice and sloppy and trembling. Th-that’s good, slut. I wanna hear you plead my name._

You adjust slightly, pressing closer to him, feel his lean body close to yours. He doesn’t have much body heat, you are burning by comparison. You re-cross your legs, half listening to him. The alcohol is starting to go to your head. _Now, once more, with feeling. Finger that pretty cunt, theeeere you go. Spread yourself open for me. When I tell you to cum y-you-- you’re gonna scream my name. I know you can get loud. Do it. Fuck yourself on your fingers, moan and arch your back, show me how much of a desperate slut you are. A-and if I’m feeling-- if I like the way you scream I might let you suck my dick._

His voice cuts through your thoughts. _Oh, he’s still talking._ “... aaand that’s how the band broke up. Our very own Yoko Ono.” He glances at you, bemused at your flustered state. You suddenly realize how close your face is to his, and that you’d been openly gawking at him. 

You turn away quickly, and drink, but he lifts his arm off your shoulder. He’s got the bottle now, his glass discarded somewhere. His free hand grasps your jaw, forces you back. He thumbs over your bottom lip and you close your eyes, dizzy and pulsing with arousal. 

“Look at me.” His voice send a shiver down your spine, to settle low and hot. “Open your eyes. I-I-I don’t fu--euugh--ucking care if you’re drunk. Look at me.”

You have no choice. He regards you dispassionately, like your reactions are facts to be memorized, filed away so he can use them later. He takes a side-swig from his bottle, burps softly. His hand comes up to play in your hair.

“Do you— do you know how much of a fucking _struggle_ it is to keep my hands off you? Especially when you look at them the—eeugh way you do. L-like you wanna… I-I-I dunno. I’m just— I wanna fuck you and I don’t care about _not supposed to_ professional working relationship bullcrap.” He wrenches your head back, making you gasp in pain. He leans in closer, tracing the definition of your jawline with his tongue. You can feel his stubble. Rough skin, rough voice. Your mind gets hung up on the public setting, briefly. You want him to fuck you here. 

“I don’t give a shit about puritanical rules, there are days when I sit there listening to you and all I wanna do is put you on the floor and b— sink my fat dick in your cunt. I know you’d be wet already, don’t deny it. I bet you’re slick right now. Tight and juicy because you just— I have that effect on you. Tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead, deny it.”

You whimper, _yes_ , and he rewards you by sinking his teeth into the soft skin of your neck. You moan too loud and he claps his hand over your mouth. 

“I fucking knew it. Knew you we-eeurgh-re wet for me. L-let’s go, let’s get-- get on outta here.” 

On the curb, it becomes clear that he is significantly drunker than you. Even in your state of nagging desire, fueled by alcohol, you know what you have to do.

“I’m-- I”m gonna... make you immortal.” He belches, slurring. “Y-y-you-- do you wanna be immortal?”

“No,” you reply. “No thanks, that doesn’t sound fun.” You hail a cab, put him in alone where he’s grumbly and disoriented. Give the driver the address, fare up front, and a good tip for the inevitable hassle. 

When you get home by yourself, you stumble in and collapse on the couch, shaking. Your nerves are too sensitive at first, when you shove your panties down. You can’t touch yourself directly, so you squeeze your breasts under your shirt, and ghost your fingers over the bruised bite he left. It hurts, pain and pleasure conflate, and you imagine his mouth still on you, biting lower, your collarbone. Leaving saliva, scratching your skin with his stubble. Teeth marks and bruises from his hands too, his fingernails etching little halfmoons in your skin. He wants you, you make him _struggle_. That confession plays over in your head, and at last you slide two fingers into your swollen pussy, curl them. Press your palm to your clit and listen to his voice in your mind growling your name, urging you to cum for him, and you do, sobbing his name in ecstasy to the empty room.

**  
Rick does not acknowledge the events at the bar the next time you see him. He doesn’t know what you did when you got home, though. In the three interceding days, you had driven yourself crazy debating whether to go see him. To make sure he got home okay, would be the excuse. 

But he doesn’t acknowledge anything, in fact. He barely acknowledges _you_ when you set your bag down and take your place by the piano. He’s also wearing a tux with tails, well-made but ill-fitting, like he couldn’t be bothered to get it tailored. The sleeves and trousers are too short for his lanky frame, especially the legs. His bony wrists are exposed as he moves, shuffling through sheet music looking for something-- his conductor’s baton.

“No practice,” he grunts, tucking it inside his jacket. “I’m filling in last minute, guest conducting at the Philharmonic, so--eeurgh-me asshole got sick.”

“Some asshole?” You think you know who he’s talking about, a respected, kind man who donates his time to teach youth orchestra workshops. “You mean Joseph Bailey?”

“Like I said, some asshole. He’s in the hospital because his wife found out about his mistress.”

“I didn’t know he had a mistress.”

“Yeah, we don’t need to have a conversation about this.”

“What’s the program tonight?” You hover, hoping for more of an interaction, but he’s not going to give you much. 

“Ma-eeugh--hler. A-a-and, uh, rimjob suckmeoff.”

_“Who?”_

He grins, delighted to shock you. “O-oh, my bad. I misspoke. Rimsky-Korsakov. Aaaaanyway, if you wanna come you can’t wear… whatever that is. Go change, I’m taking the stage in half an hour.”

**  
Your dress is too short to be quite formal, you realize in the hall among throngs of concert-goers in evening gowns and tuxedos. It’s crimson, and backless, and you’d picked it from your closet in a rush, influenced, perhaps, by Rick’s own too-short attire. The lights dim, signalling the audience to take their seats. Rick had sent you off with a special card to show the ticket taker. Box seats, all to yourself, you hope, and you aren’t disappointed. 

Settled in, and you’re alone, good thing too because you already know watching him is going to make you squirm. You look at the card again and find a note in his barely readable handwriting. 

_Come find me backstage afterward, practice room 3B. Should have time to go over a couple things for Act IV. -R_

You trace your finger over the letters, knowing now what his hands feel like, how they move. He must have had this prepared before you arrived. You still want to ask how he knows the music well enough to step in last minute.

When the performance starts you lean forward, needing to be closer. These seats are the best in the house but it’s not good enough, and it’s strange to be the audience for once, watching him as the focal point on stage. He conducts in a way that invites you to read into the music, trying to catch a glimpse of a secret fragility that you imagine he carries, encased in all his caustic sarcasm. It is temperamental, imperial, chaotic. At times he seems to be in excruciating pain, his thin shoulders hunched as this vortex of sound he created threatens to overwhelm him. His hair is wild, his movements electric, and you go to your fantasies again, can’t help it. What would it be like for him to turn that energy on you, completely? You had a sample at the bar and it consumed you, burning you down to embers and ash.

All too soon it’s over, but you have the promise of a brief practice with him, and so you find your way backstage to room 3B, anxious and already distracted by the insistent ache between your legs. 

Rick is in there, sprawled out in a chair, drinking from a flask. He should be awkward, unseemly in a tux that’s too short with his bony wrists poking out of the cuffs but he’s not. He’s shrugged out of the jacket, undone the bow tie. His collar unbuttoned gaps open and you can see his gaunt sharp collarbones. 

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles. He looks exhausted.

“The concert was wonderful,” you venture, but he interrupts you.

“Yeah, save your-- just shut up about it. I know. Don’t need to hear it from a million fucking people.” He pulls on his shoulder, his face a moue of discomfort. “Sing something. Wh-whateeeever you want, I don’t give a fuck. Could be the Mo--eeugh--nster Mash for all I care.” 

You stand in front of him, heart hammering in your chest. You’re not scared when you’re actually singing, and performing. It’s the build up, walking up to the cliff’s edge and looking down. _That’s_ the scary part. Once you’re falling you’re free of the dreadful anticipation. Plus, it’s for _him_ and he makes you want to drop to your knees and grovel.

“Well?” He snaps. “Go on, open that-- that pretty mouth, niiiice and wide.”

You face reddens at his lewdness, and you launch into the first song that comes to mind: La Vie en Rose.

His eyes are hooded, intent on you as you sing. He makes no secret of perusing your body, biting his lip and spreading his legs wide, draining his flask for good measure. It gets tossed aside with his jacket. He stares at your lips, your tits. Licks his lips when his eyes drop to your bare legs, which are elongated by the line of your high heels. The French is awkward in your mouth, haven’t practiced it in a while, and you regret your choice as soon as you sing about _mots d’amour._ The lyrics are sweetly romantic, the melody intimate. You expect him to shut you down any moment, but he doesn’t. Just leers at you with amusement. His hand clenches and unclenches on his thigh and you croon to him, taking the chance while you can to watch him right back. 

At the end of the song you realize you’re staring at his crotch, not really your fault, you’d argue, because he sat with his legs like that on purpose. You think you see the outline of his cock. Hangs to the left, good to know. 

He catches you looking, _of course_ he catches you, and he huffs out a breath of laughter. Rises, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he ambles towards you. You back away, until you can’t anymore, you bump against the grand piano. His forearms are lean and pale, he flexes his hands restlessly.

Even with your four-inch heels he towers over you. “Th-that was— if only you could sing like that during rehearsal, we wouldn’t have to spend so much time together.”

He brings his hand to your neck, lifts your chin to inspect the bruise he gave you three days ago; you almost flinch at his touch. “I-I know, that’s not what you’d want, is it? You want more of these.” He leans down like he’s going to kiss you and your breath hitches. He puts his thumb on your lips instead, and drags it across your cheek, smearing your lipstick. You thrill at his attention, your eyes must be bright, he smudges your top lip too, to the other side. There’s no way you don’t look ridiculous but he’s so focused on you, you don’t dare to move.

“Y-you— I know your type. You wanna drop to your knees for me. You meet someone you respect and you’d do anything. Humiliate yourself. Debase-- let me demean you, make a-a-a _spectacle_ because you think it’ll make me happy.” He pushes two fingers in your mouth, presses them against your tongue. Sneers when you moan helplessly. “Yeaahhh you’re a slut, I-I get it. Grateful just for the chance to slobber on whatever I— anything you can get. Thaaat’s right, get ‘em nice and wet.”

You raise a hand to his arm but he smacks it away. “D-did I say you could fucking touch me, slut? Haa-eeugh-ands to yourself, I’m still deciding whether to let you suck my dick or not. I mean, it was a nice song, bu--eeugh-t _so_ trite. You really had to pick something so maudlin?” He removes his fingers. “Answer me something— how long have you been fucking yourself on your hand thinking of me? Weeks? Months?”

Tears prick your eyes. “I-I…”

His hand slides up your thigh, drawing the hem of your dress with it. You close your eyes against the tears, against the flare of arousal, but he makes you look at him. 

“Come onnnn, I know you can do better. I’m making this _easy_ for you.” He looks so tired this close, his mouth defaulting to a thin line. His fingers find the edge of your panties, trace along the seam, then under. Run through your slit and it’s only then that you feel how wet you are. He exhales, presses himself against you, his cock hard and hot even through clothing. 

“H-how long?” He repeats.

You shudder as his finger brushes your clit. “Since… October. Maybe earlier. September? I can’t think of anything else.”

“Soooo, you’ve been standing next to me, chirping away, th-thinking of m— of my cock.” Yes. He sinks one long finger into you, bracing himself on the piano with his forearm. He licks the bruise he already left, growling, _you didn’t even cover it up, good girl_ , bites it lightly and you moan. Presses his palm to your throbbing clit, curls his finger inside you. 

“Rick…” You plead. Embarrassment at how easily he guessed your fantasies only fans your need brighter.

His voice is low and muffled on your skin. “Nnnf fuck. Y-you’re so fucking tight and wet. You come to my place like this every time, ready to go? Shit, it’s no wonder you’re always distracted.” 

You roll your hips, or at least try, but he pins you. Bites your neck in another spot, sucking the flesh and rolling it between his teeth. You moan at the pain, and at the friction, opposites at disparate points, feeding the delicious coiling tension. You feel the solid length of his cock as he grinds on you. When he lifts his head you smell gin on his breath, crisp and fragrant. Inspects the new mark then licks it and you keen, wantonly riding his hand. Chasing that tender pleasure, so close, and how you’ve dreamed of this for so long…

And he withdraws his fingers. 

You give a pathetic whine. “What? No! Why’d you stop?” Had you done something wrong? Not begged to his satisfaction?

He holds his fingers up to your mouth. “My--eeugh- my hand got tired. Lick them clean, slut.”

You do it instantly, laving your own musky taste from his fingers. 

“D-do you do this on your own? By yourself in the dark, ride your fingers wishing I-- wishing it was me.”

You hum around them. You’d even done exactly what he’s doing now, stuffing them in your mouth imagining it was him, though your own fingers are inferior to the real thing.

He takes them away with a ‘pop’, wipes them off on the front of your dress. He tilts his head, regarding your tear-smudged mascara and the red ruin he’d made of your lipstick. 

The brief absence of immediate diversion gives you pause to think about something he’d just said. “Rick, are you-- do you have an injury? Are you in pain?” In the course of saying it aloud you’re already convinced. The grimace he has every time he plays, his hands constantly restless, the tension he holds in his neck and shoulders. 

His eyes narrow. “None of your business.”

“But--!”

He turns away, going to collect his coat and flask. He’s done. Completely shut down. “Go home. See you Friday.”

**  
The wait until Friday is agonizing, as is the rehearsal itself. Rick is distant, yet cruel. Single word instructions, and his critique is acerbic, as if he expects you to already know what he’s going to tell you, _and why can’t you fucking do it right already?_ He demands the technique, and the emotion, and virtuosic perfection marrying the two. But as you blaze through complex sections with the pitiless precision required, passion seeps away. Then he berates you, dial it back on the technical shit, let me hear the _feeling_ , and you end up slurring the pronunciation.

And so it goes, adding a pound of weight to one side, taking it off and putting it on the other, thinking it will balance the scale. You despair ever getting it to level. 

Throughout all of it, you squirm with desire and concern, wanting to reach out to him, and needing completion. Fantasies about him are daily and inescapable. The brief contact with his hands did nothing to sate your lust, only inflamed it further, since now you know exactly what they feel like, drunk or sober. You know they’re cool and dry, cold enough to make you jump. You know where his calluses are on his finger pads, from fretting and picking a guitar. You know how long his palms plus fingers can stretch, more than half the circumference of your neck, your chin to your forehead. You know his reach, and what he likes to touch. 

The wait until Monday is, somehow, even worse. Between all-company rehearsals and your own independent practice, your voice is weak by the time you take your position next to the piano. By now, Natalie is a reassuring presence rather than an annoyance.  
Rick looks, if possible, more surly than usual, slumped over the piano with his trusty bottle. The planned complete run-through of Act III proceeds disastrously; you keep messing up out of nerves and he chastises you worse every time. So frequent are the repeats that he begins to stand in between each take, and pace, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his temples.

You work up the courage to offer, and he turns on you, scornful.

“A _massage?_ ” Tempers run short after four hours of slow progress. “Y-you wanna get all therapeutic? I’ve got no use for tha-eeugh-t shit. You wanna help me, get on your knees. M-m-my hands fucking hurt all the time, can’t even jack off without--” He pauses to drink. “Yeah, y-you-- just get on down there, massage my cock with your tongue, that’s the only thing I need from you.”

Not a suggestion, not an offer. A command to perform, the same way he writes notes on a staff, creates a world in which you simply exist and obey. Heat pools between your legs. The only thing that makes you hesitate is the looming premiere date, and your own apparent backslide into mediocrity. 

“Yeaahh you’d like that. Life would be so much easier with my dick in your mouth. And I wouldn’t have to endure your mistakes.” He shakes his head. “ _Well?_ Don’t just fucking stand there staring at me. Get on your knees or sing.” 

Trembling-- from frustration or arousal, you can’t tell-- you sing. You don’t falter. You flex your range, showing off color on the high notes, infusing the right phrases with a blaze of emotion and letting the technique fall into place. 

When you finish he nods. Cracks his knuckles and sits back down at the piano. 

You stand a little straighter, joy and pride going to your head. “Was it… do you have notes?”

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself,” he snaps. Clears his throat. "There's no need for conversation. You, uh, you should probably save your voice. Need to save your voice, I still want to go over the re-worked opening for Act IV. And no, I have nothing to-- nothing. It was fine."

**  
The afternoon of the last practice, and your yearning is, in your mind, more pathetic than ever. It inspires you to dress up, while trying not to make it obvious that you’re making an effort. Makeup, when you normally don’t wear any.

You get out of the cab and walk past the motley storefronts. Possibly the last time seeing them, in this order. Up the five flights of stairs, and let yourself in. Only this time does it occur to you how odd it is that a man like him, so closed off, would leave his front door unlocked, knowing that you’re coming. You are expected, though you know you’re just another facet reflecting the grand expression of his ego.

In spite of everything, your fascination with him, and your lust, have not abated. You still think of him on the days between his rehearsals-- non-Rick days. Still crave his hands on you, enough to fuel nightly fantasies which end with you breathing out, _Rick_ , only as loud as your shame allows. You’ve played out this final rehearsal in your head, anticipation twisting it into a sort of last chance before you’ll never have this kind of reason to visit him again. 

It starts much like every other session. 

“Lazy tongue.” He sounds almost bored as he harps on pronunciation. A bar later and he tells you again, more sharply. “Enunciate.”

And all the following, interrupting you; the pauses give you time to get distracted by his hands. 

“Late.”

“Flat.”

“Sharp.”

“Pronunciation. W-what-- are you trying to channel Eliza Doolittle?”

“Faces! You’re making stupid faces again. I don’t need to see your fucking tonsils, keep your head level.”

You can tell he’s in pain. Every time he stops playing he pulls on his left shoulder. “I don’t make faces!”

“Oh, oh yeah. Oh really? You open your mouth like you’re trying to catch flies. Open it wider, maybe someday you can fit my dick in.” 

Your mind is there instantly, a prurient vision of the road not taken during your previous rehearsal. His hands holding either side of your face, fucking the lush heat of your mouth. You flush red, but continue with the piece, determined to forge ahead  
“Why can’t you sing?” He finally snaps, crumpling the sheet music in his hand and waving it at you. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Who the fuck is supposed to be able to sing this?” You retort. “Could _you?_ This is a glorified scale. This is…this is a string of arpeggios to torture me! It’s inane!” His eyes narrow at the insult, so you swiftly navigate to something marginally safer. “And besides, I had to work on my own for a week, and on top of that, for the past week you’ve been fucking _awful_.”

He scoffs. “Hah! That’s rich. _I’ve_ been awful? Th-this-- it’s like amateur hour with you, trying to get you to display any sort of consistency.” 

“I know I keep messing up, it’s because you won’t stop yelling at me to relax. Being yelled at isn’t relaxing.”

“Oh, am I being too _mean?_ Does it make you nervous to think that someone might actually say you fucking suck at what you do?”

Answering ‘yes’ will only sound petulant, so you glare at him.

“You know what?” He picks up his conductor’s baton, rises from the bench. “Go-eeeugh stand right there.” He points to a spot in the middle of the room, and you go, looking over your shoulder at him. 

He brings the baton to your face, presses the point into your cheek. “D-did I say to-- did I say you could look at me? Face forward.” His voice has gone low, the same huskiness it had at the bar and then the concert. 

A jolt of desire strikes you, immediate and insistent. He comes to stand close by your side and it takes all your effort not to turn and look at him. At least you have the sense not to apologize.

The tip of the baton applies more pressure; you tilt your head. He’s looking at the bruises, which are now a few weeks old. You know from checking them in the mirror every day that they haven’t healed. They’re splotchy purple, starting to yellow. He pokes one— baton, still, he’s denying you his hands— and your breath hitches at that. A dull ache that blooms to pleasure. “We’re— gonna do something different. A little something different than usual, cause, uh, last time and all that. I don’t give a shit. Undress.”

Shock at the command barely registers, only catches up when you realize, hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your panties, that you had obeyed so quickly. Hoping for him to praise your alacrity.

“Take those off any slower and I’ll make you try to sing with them stuffed in your mouth. Not that I wouldn’t— bet it would be hot, you’re wet already, aren’t you? Those things are probably soaked.”

Your black lace panties get tossed into a pile with your clothes and shoes and bra. He jabs you suddenly in your side and you yelp. “Aaaand that’s the part where you say, ‘yes, Rick’.”

You repeat it, sulky; the reward is the baton dragging from the very top of your spine down. Slowly, cool wood on warm skin. He stops right above the curve of your ass, and makes an announcement.

“Posture. Diction. Breathing.” He must see your shoulders slump— _vocal exercises, really? Now?_ — because he responds: “yes, I really do have to go over the fucking basics with you. Keep your back straight, tits out and up.” He taps your shoulder with his baton, then pokes the middle of your back, making you jerk. But your posture is better. “Th-theeeere you go. Wha-eeurgh-at else was I saying?”

“Breathing.”

“No, the other one.” He moves around you, trailing the baton along your skin. Over patterns on your stomach, the backs of your thighs, tracing your ribs. Sensitive places that make you squirm. 

Your breath catches in your throat before you respond. “Diction?”

“Yeah, that.” He leers. “Dic-tion. Check it— say it with me now. Dick-shun.”

“Diction.”

“No no no no. Like dick. This thing I have and you, uh, don’t. A-a-and the act of ignoring someone, I guess, worst nightmare for a Prima Donna like you. You gotta—eeugh— gotta say it right. That’s the whole point, say it right, be exact, y-you— you need to know precisely where your tongue is in your mouth, and what shape it’s making, and how long you hold it there."

Your mind goes back to the night of the concert, of his fingers in your mouth. The memory never fails to induce a rush of arousal, and it makes you impertinent. "Oh, yes, _thank you_. I've only been singing professionally for most of my life, so this is all new to me, you're being so helpful.”

Rick frowns. ‘Insolent’ is the word he uses, but he grins, his eyes shine with base delight. “I-I should fucking beat you for that, but you— it’s the attention, isn’t it? You’d squeal and cream yourself getting, uh, getting that kind of treatment.” He should know. You suspect he might be jealous of the recognition a performer gets compared to a composer. His ego is greedy, and needs to be fed.

“... yes.”

"Stop staring at your feet." He traces his baton up your sternum, and you wish dearly it was his tongue, or his fingers. Up the column of your neck, your throat, lifts your chin. You're forced to make eye contact with him and it feels too brazen. “And if you talk back again, you will stand here, naked and silent, until I tell you to move. I don’t give a shit that the premiere’s tomorrow, I have nooooo problem telling them to use the understudy. _Got it?_ ”

Your heart clenches. “Yes, Rick.”

“A—eeugh-lright. Last one. One would think that a sentient creature such as yourself would not have to reminded to inhale and exhale. But we’re back on this again. So get it right. Time it right. Control your breath. Can you do that?”

You nod sullenly.

“Now, you’re, uh, you’re gonna sing. Y-you— regular old vocal exercises. Start on G.”

The first scale goes well enough, although you’re getting a bit chilly, and Rick’s incessant distractions with the baton don’t help. At the second, he cleaves his body to yours, grinding his clothed erection against the curve of your ass. You waver on the higher notes. The third, he snakes a hand down your stomach, and lower, draws a finger through the moisture at your slit and your breath skips. He doesn’t wait for the fourth to sink a finger in and a high A flat becomes a guttural moan. 

Of course, the basics are out the window. You know you sound bad, mewling more than singing, but you don’t care. You slump against his body, he inserts a second finger and you clench around him, voice hitching.

You stop trying to sing at all, shamelessly rolling your hips, desperate for the friction he won’t quite deliver. 

“Giving up?” He prompts. “Fine. G-get on your knees. Suck my dick.”

Breathing shaky, heart fluttering. You turn and drop. Fumble with his fly until he slaps your hands away and shoves his waistband down, presenting you with his cock and balls. Massive. Effortlessly intimidating, like the rest of him. 

His hand fists in your hair, wrenches your head, makes sure you see him licking his fingers clean of your moisture. When you take him in your mouth he drops the baton; you hear it clatter on the parquet floor. His shaft is thick and veiny, fills your mouth and forces your tongue flat. 

“Ffffuck _yes_ take my cock in your mouth, slut. L-let me hear how long you’ve been— how long you’ve wanted to slobber all over it.” 

Even if this wasn’t what you’d been dreaming of for months, there would still be saliva dribbling down your chin, the intrusion turning you into a drooling mess. His voice is raspy, taunting you. _Debase yourself, do it for me. You’re never getting anything better than this, enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, slut._

Tears prick your eyes and he notices the smudged mascara and laughs. _Thought you’d get dressed up, is that supposed to be for me? Let’s test that gag reflex._ He fucks deeper, down your throat. You squeeze your fists tight, digging your nails into your palms. 

He is measured, languid, holding your face just so. Presses his balls against your chin then pulls back slowly. He’s biting his lip, eyes hooded. “Touch your-- rub your clit, finger th-that sweet juicy cunt. Go ahead, show me the-- how you do it when I’m not around.

You make a noise of relief around his cock as you circle your clit. Wish it was his fingers instead of yours, as always. 

“Good girl, that’s, unnh, that’s good, that’s fucking hot, y-you like choking on this fat dick? You wanna swallow my load?” 

“Mhmm” is mostly drowned out by the obscene squelching of his cock gagging you. 

“Wellll tough titties I’m an old man, only get one of these every couple hours. And I don’t— I’m done waiting. I’ve done my waiting, I wanna hear how loud you scream when I shove my cock up your ass.” He pulls out, dragging you up by your hair. You protest that it hurts, but he rolls his eyes and pushes you towards a wall. Takes a moment to strip his shirt over his head and take his trousers all the way off. You crane around to get a better look, but he takes hold of the back of your neck.

“Y-you can-- I’ll let you ogle me later, not that you haven’t been eyeing me up for months.” 

You hear a cap click open, jump a second later at the cool sensation of lube-- where had he gotten lube?-- but he snaps at you to stay still. The viscous liquid runs down the crack of your ass, he rubs his cock there too, in the cleft. As much as he grumbles how long he’s been waiting to do this, he seems perfectly happy to extend your suffering and tease you. He goes slow, working one finger in, then a second. 

_Relax_ , is his instruction, which you’ve heard so often under different circumstances it makes you clench harder instead. He scissors them, stretching you gently. He should not be this patient, indeed, his erection nudges you as a reminder: he wants to see you come unhinged.

You push back onto his fingers; he gets the message. Takes them away and positions the head of his cock at the opening of your ass. Into the tight ring of muscle, and unyielding resistance. You whimper at the sting; he grips your neck harder and continues. It hurts, his girth penetrating you inch by inch, and stokes your desire. “Th-this-- god _damn_ you’re tight, y-you got a tight little ass. And you-- you wanted to give it up the first time we met, didn’t you? Tell me, don’t lie. You would’ve bent over and held these cheeks open for me all nice and pretty.”

“Yes,” you pant. The admission is freeing; Rick likes the desperation in your voice. He rocks in deep, too much. Too thick, you feel all of him. “ _Rick…_ ”

One hand on your hip, long fingers gripping hard enough to bruise; the other goes to your shoulder, pinning you. He nuzzles the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his breath hot on your skin. “Fuck, yes, say it louder, slut.” 

You plead to him again. Your pussy is throbbing, the earlier permission to touch your clit revoked when he notices your hand drop from where you’ve braced yourself against the wall. Exposed to the full force of his lust and you beg for more. 

“Yeah, nnnnf _fuck_ , you like it w-when I— when I bury my dick in your ass. Attention hungry slut. Y-you’re all the same, desperate for— for recognition. Approval. You think _wanting_ it enough makes you special?”

He’s right. And you can’t reply. You’re a whimpering mess, incoherent. Pussy empty and slick and raw with need. His hand drops from your shoulder to your clit, and when he presses his fingers there, he sinks his teeth into the slope of your neck and shoulder. 

A keening cry rips from your throat-- the closest to his name you can manage. The conflict of pain and pleasure he draws from you overwhelms your senses, exquisite after this prolonged torment. He grunts against your skin, lifts his mouth and leaves a cool wet patch. You will be graced with yet another reminder of him. He keeps a relentless pace, feeling you start to clench around him. His narrow hips slap against your ass and thighs, blunt sound of flesh on flesh.

He loses control of you for a moment, infuses you with too much of his wild energy and you begin to crest, canting your hips back to meet his. Long fingers swipe over your clit, his thick cock fills you over and over, and the simmering tension cracks, then shatters. Release slams into you, searing ecstasy, and you wail his name, flagrantly loud. He swears at you, approving, yet merciless as he splits you open. A stream of indecency issues in his rough voice and when his hips stall, pressing into you as deep as he can go, he gives a hoarse groan. Pumps a few more times and you feel the new slickness of his cum in your ass. He pulls out and some of it drips down the inside of your thighs.

You turn, uncertain of anything that should happen next. You are sore, still a bit shaky from the intensity of your climax, and suddenly chilly. Would he mind if you washed up here before heading home?

When he realizes you’re staring at him he glowers at you. Doesn’t try to cover his nakedness, but clasps his hands together. They’re trembling.

He follows you to the bathroom, looms behind you waiting for the shower to warm up. There is nothing to say. It seems intrusive when you turn to face him, again. You’d like to wrap your arms around him, lay your head to his chest. You touch his forearm instead, pull on his wrist. He relents and holds out his hand, which is burled into a fist. You trace the array of tendons, down to each knuckle, stark and bony under thin pale skin. 

You turn his hand over, palm up. Want to trace the lines to find out more, or drag him downstairs to Lee the chiromancer. There are ink stains on his fingers, faint blotches that he’s tried to scrub off in scalding water. Your touch stabilizes him, imparting calm. Stops the shaking, at least. You glance up, hoping for a clue if he’s about to snatch his hand away, but his expression is unreadable.

You start massaging with your thumbs, pulling his palm open and flat. When you hit the fleshy part of his thumb joint, he makes a tiny sigh. “Did that hurt?”

“Mmm, no. K-keep going. I’ll tell you when you can stop.”

You do, enjoying his little noises of relief. “You know, for the amount of concern you have for my voice, I’m surprised you don’t treat your hands with the same respect.”

“I don’t need your philosophizing. Do-- get the other hand now. Do the other one.”

“What would you do if you couldn’t conduct anymore? Or hold a pen to write? Or--”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? I already can’t hold a pen.”

“A quill, then. But what if you were in too much pain? To play anything, I mean. What if all you could do was listen?”

Rick shrugs. “Drink. Pay whores to ride my dick. Aaaaand then I’d get bored of it eventually and kill myself. Probably.” At your outcry he rolls his eyes. “Oh, _please_ , I-I’m-- I don’t need your sympathy, so save it. Anyway, I was kidding, I’d get bored in three weeks and two days. And I don’t think I would listen to music anymore, if it got too--” He swallows whatever else he was going to say in a gulp of gin, which you didn’t notice he had brought with him into the bathroom until now. 

“How long with me?”

“To get bored of you?” He snorts. “Always needs to be about being _special_ with you. But, uh, no. I-I-I dunno. Hasn’t happened yet, but if it’s-- if that’s what you’re angling for, all these dumb questions are definitely accelerating the process.” He tugs his hand away. 

After the shower he offers you a drink because he wants to fuck you again, which he does, both of you drunk and sloppy. (His claim of needing two hours was, perhaps, a lie.) The gin makes you dizzy; he swallows your joy by kissing you, even though it means hearing less of his own name. You wonder if you should go, it’s so late. You massage his back and shoulders, naked in the dark on his bed, until he’s snoring. Toss a blanket over him, and yourself, and drift off to sleep, buzzed and happy.

When you wake up a few hours later, he is gone. You lie still under wan moonlight sieved through the curtains and listen to the muffled, halted piano playing. He must be writing something new.


	25. Rick eats a peach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: A fic about Rick provocatively eating a juicy peach after he notices reader staring at him eating? Maybe? I have a voyeuristic eating kink I guess, if that's a valid term lol
> 
> tags: seductive peach eating?? fantasies about cunnilingus

It’s the sounds that get you first. Through the dining room they reach you, slurping, sucking, smacking, and you pad into the living room, quiet and curious. Rick is leaning against the door jamb, staring out at the backyard, arms bare in only a white muscle shirt tucked in to his worn-too-high pants. And he’s eating a peach. 

That, in itself, is unremarkable, yet you are transfixed and silent, hyperaware of your breath. Inhaling and exhaling are such burdensome necessities at the moment. Arousal blooms in you, delicate and lush. You think you might need to sit down.

He looks over, notices you, and burps. Rather dismissive. His peach is more interesting. He licks a dribble of juice that tracks down his thumb. That had to be on purpose, you swear, because the way his tongue moves is positively _indecent_. 

You flush warm with fresh desire, though he doesn’t see. His gaze is far out the window again, and you wonder what he could be thinking. Other than: ‘this peach is so delicious.’ But he looks contemplative between mouthfuls. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, as if he’s never tasted anything better and you feel a sudden, overwhelming jealousy of that peach. Competition. Let him spread your legs and compare. 

He devours this luscious, perfect thing, but he does it so gradually. He bites through velvety skin, his teeth sink into the ripe flesh. He might do the same, between your legs. Nip at your thighs, then bite to bruising. He could consume you, too. Lap up the sweetness from your cunt, suck your clit in his mouth. Sloppy and wet and greedy and he would groan to you-- 

He distracts you momentarily in another way: stands up straight, stretches, rolling his shoulders. His body is gaunt and bony, straight parallel lines up and down like iron bars. He might stiffen if you approached him. You can imagine yourself walking over, cautious, you won’t scare him away, but he may lunge, ravenous. 

There’s juice on his chin, a little pulpy. You want to be bold, want to lick it off and hear him chuckle at your eagerness. You would catch his drool too, the heady essence of liquor, all together smokey and mellow. Drag your tongue along his jawline, feel the roughness of his stubble and he’d remind you, grinding his hard cock against your hip, that he is _not_ sweet. 

You linger at his hands and how they would linger on you. He’s at the last few bites, his mouth and fingers glistening. He’s indulged himself, making a mess when he’s normally civilized, at a table. And he would glory in you, your legs wrapped around his head, trembling. His hand flat on your stomach or else holding your hips because you buck and roll and _let him revel in it_. Kissing your cunt and two long fingers curved inside and oh _god_ —

He tosses the clean pit over his shoulder, his attention shifts. He licks his hand clean, an obscene display that fogs your mind, and once again you’re envious of whatever his tongue happens to be touching— in this case, both, he’s sucking his long fingers one by one, and you simply want to put yourself between his tongue and his hands and invite him to partake. He wipes his mouth with his forearm, then grins like he can smell your lust. He is not sated yet.


	26. Rick eats a peach part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: a sequel to the provocative peach eating?
> 
> Think of this as more of an alternative ending… or perhaps, in one dimension over, Rick’s aim was slightly better (or worse).

_He tosses the clean pit over his shoulder…_ In dimension c-137, it lands on the floor, Rick’s attention shifts to you, he bends you over the couch, and the scene tastefully fades to black over the lurid sounds your moans. In dimension c-137.4-alpha, _he tosses the clean pit over his shoulder…_

and it hits Jerry. Neither of you noticed his presence in the room until he squeals pathetically. 

“Owww my eye!” 

Rick whirls, tenses, all his lustful focus dissipating. 

Damnit, Jerry! You curse him internally. So close, and Rick does not typically handle it well when he is sexually thwarted.

Out loud, he expresses himself more colorfully. “Jesus FUCKING Christ Jerry! W-what-- how long have you been there? I almost had my dick hanging out, were you-- eeugh-- sitting on the couch like that the whole time? Trying to get a-a glimpse-- get a little peek of these swangly balls? I guess I don’t blame you, that one over there can’t _wait._ ” 

“I need to go to the hospital! Beeeeth? Beth!”

Rick groans. “No, just-- shut up, Jerry. I’ll take you, she doesn’t have to know about this.” Together, you and Rick trundle Jerry into the backseat of Rick’s ship-car hybrid. He’s still whimpering, holding a hand over his left eye. Blood leaks from between his fingers, down his hand and cheek.

You keep twisting around from the front seat to check on him, while Rick is entirely unconcerned. “Why didn’t we just portal?” You ask Rick in an undertone; the question only occurs to you when he stops at a red light. 

“And waste the portal gun fluid? No _thank you_. Do you have any idea how much time a-and effort it takes to make that stuff? A lot! So I’m not gonna spend it on Jerry.” Rick says all this loud enough for his son-in-law to hear.

“I’m in pain!” Jerry whines. Rick responds by moving his seat all the way back, severely encroaching on Jerry’s leg space. 

Once Jerry is delivered to the ER, Rick steers you right back out to the parking lot.

“We’re just leaving him here?”

“He’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

“But--”

“Y-you’re-- you really wanna argue with me right now? Ge-eeugh- get in, we’re going. I wanna taste how wet that pussy is. O-or I can bend you over the hood of the car, I reallllly don’t give a shit.”


	27. DWC: skinny dipping in cold water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the second #rick sanchez drunk writing circle  
> prompt: Skinny-dipping with Rick. It's cold water.

Your eyes go wide. Rick immediately notices where you’re staring. Doesn’t try to cover up, but definitely gets defensive.

“It’s called _shrinkage!_ ”

You bite your tongue, your lip, a smile creeps across your face anyway. “I-- I’m not laughing at it-- at you. It’s just so… cute!” 

Well. That was the wrong thing to say.

Rick’s expression darkens. He wades over to you, grabs a fistful of your hair and forces you to your knees. They hit the bottom of the pool, slow motion in the water, so no jarring bump like usual. The water comes up to your chin here. “Y-y-you know why it looks like that? Because I’m fucking cold! And you know why it’s-- why my dick is cold? Because it’s used to having your mouth around it.”

He pries it open and shoves in, and you get a mouthful of water along with it. Even soft, his cock isn’t small, and you suck enthusiastically. Try not to inhale pool water. His fingers tangle in your wet hair, his other hand grasps your jaw. 

“Y-you think this is fucking cute, slut?” He thrusts in, his rapidly hardening cock flattening your tongue. Holds himself there, uncaring that he splashes water in your face. Some goes up your nose. You splutter, grasping his bony hips. Your skill at pleasuring him is your own downfall-- or victory. He fucks down your throat, fully erect and massive. There is no escape; that exquisite combination of panic and lust must show in your expression because he grins down at you, asserting his control once again. 

“Yeaaahhh, th-that’s it. You got this, you love it. Love swallowing this, uh, this fat cock, doesn’t matter what’s in the way.” You moan around his thick length in agreement. Let him move your head, fuck your face and you are completely pliant. You gaze up at him, water sloshing, the sounds of him taking his enjoyment obscene. He bites his lip when he gets close, gives an unrestrained groan and you marvel at the spectacle. You will take anything-- _everything_ \-- he gives you, and thank him for the privilege.


	28. DWC: boobytrap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first #rick sanchez drunk writing circle  
> prompt: boobytrap

“Excuse me,” you say, all polite and matter-of-fact. Rick has wandered into the kitchen while you are handwashing dishes, and he presses his body to yours. He rolls his hips, you can feel his cock, hard and hot through layers of clothing. Normally you’d be all over that, but this really isn’t the time. Hungover, still, at four in the afternoon. Your place is a mess, most of the dirty dishes are the product of guests, and a raucous evening. 

Rick has not been particularly helpful in the clean-up effort. And he wants sex _now._ Hard not to feel resentful. 

“Rick, I’m busy. I’m doing this.” Your hands work under the sudsy warm water. His ghost up your sides, and you can’t swat them away. He has you pinned against the counter.

“I’m-- I noticed something. Noticed you need help.”

“Oh, really?” How unusual, not for him to be observant, but to offer assistance for tedious chores. 

“Mhmm.” Under your shirt, patterning circles on your stomach with his fingernails. You rock your hips back. “You’re not wearing a bra.” His hands go higher, not bothering to tease any more. He holds your breasts, squeezes them. 

You hum, exhale. He knows how you like to be touched. Nothing light. You need intention. 

“H-hey. Guess what you are.” His voice is gruff, suggestive. 

“What?” You’ve resigned the prospect of getting anything done, now that Rick has attired you with a handbra. 

“Okay, okay, it was gonna be a joke, I’m still working on it, heeeeere goes: caught between me and the sink, with my hands on your tits. Consider yourself… booby-trapped.”


	29. DWC: water balloon fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first #rick sanchez drunk writing circle  
> prompt: water balloon fight

Usually the thing that intimidates you most about Rick is his enormous veiny cock. Not so, now. 

You had only hit him with one water balloon. _One._ Granted, it was a dirty trick, ambushing him as you did. Rick takes his role as grillmaster very seriously, and did not appreciate a wet pant-leg when he had burgers cooking and an entire block’s worth of hungry neighbors to impress. You’d been hoping he would come after you with his spatula, perhaps deliver a spanking in the semi-privacy of the Smith family kitchen while guests mill in the backyard. 

It’s not even his grin as he rounds on you (though it sends a delicious shiver down your spine), or the cold way he shoulders past you into the house-- you assume he’s going to change his pants. It’s the big fuck-off water balloon bazooka he returns with from the garage. You’ve seen it in there before, hanging on the wall like any other tool in a workshop, and it hadn’t filled you with dread then. But you know Rick. You know that this is about to get ugly.

Balanced on his shoulder, lined with blinking lights, it looks like it could take out a tank. He probably needs to take a knee to fire it. 

You start to back away, inching towards the basket of water balloons you had filled earlier, imagining a fun, silly romp of an afternoon. Pelting each other with multicolored orbs that embody summer fun, perhaps with children frolicking and general laughter and merriment.

“Oh no you fucking don’t! Get your ass-- get back here, biii--eugh--iiitch! We’re doing this! Me and you baby!”

When it charges up it makes an ominous high-pitched whirring, and Rick has to steady himself against the vibrations.

“Rick! What the hell--” Jerry approaches but Rick turns the cannon on his son-in-law. And fires. A green projectile the size of a dodgeball nails him square in the stomach, knocking him back into a crowd of horrified onlookers. He lands heavily, tries to get up, pukes in the grass instead. Rick cackles madly. 

“Hah! Fuck you Jerry! Anyone else want a fucking piece of this, step to-- step right up! I’ll waste you assholes.”

Jerry whimpers pitifully; even Beth hesitates to help him. Rick’s attention is already elsewhere, casting around the crowd. He enjoys the stunned silence, the ease with which he subdues them all. No way to fight back. 

You dip slowly, palming a water balloon from the basket. Smooth, measured, easy-- but what’s the point. He’ll always outgun you. 

“Rick.” You say, winding up. His attention snaps back to you and you commit the cardinal sin of water balloon fights: aim for the face. You must have a death wish. 

He splutters, water dripping down his nose, his spiky hair only marginally affected. Little shreds of blue latex stick in his unibrow. His eyes narrow and you shrink back. Prepare for annihilation.

Staring down the barrel of this thing, you’re reminded of the first few times you got on your knees for Rick-- or rather, he pushed you down there-- unzipped and presented you with his monster dick.

Apparently it’s your lot in life to be confronted with phallic objects and you must offer your surrender. Competing with Rick always ends the same way. 

He shoots Jerry again for good measure. “I-I’m-- I’m sparing you all. Rejoice in my benevolence. But you can all cook your own burgers, thanks to this one here--” He nods to you. “A-and you. Come. You’re coming with me. Next time you wanna--euugh-- start shit with me you gotta prepare better than-- whatever you did.” He leads you inside, his hand is a vice on your upper arm. He leans in and his voice is low with carnal promise. “Keep that mouth hanging open, you little slut, I got something that’ll make you _really_ wet. You wanted a f-- a struggle, you got it.”


	30. Public sex, quietly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two requests:  
> 1-- Not sure if you’re still taking fic requests, but if you are, I’d love to read your take on rick and female reader trying to keep quiet while Beth and Jerry are within earshot  
> 2-- Fic request Rick x Reader: dry humping close to a public place where they have to whisper/keep silent? :D when I say close to I'm thinking like around the corner at a party or in a restaurant bathroom or something but please do what you like with it.
> 
> tags: vaginal sex

Why Beth and Jerry drag her cranky, alcoholic father with them to return Christmas gifts, you have no idea. Naturally, Rick needs a constant source of entertainment, so you get dragged along as well. Beth and Jerry are puzzled, but happy, to see Rick ostensibly acting normal, or normal by association. They welcome you, and Jerry asks if you have an interest in antique coin collecting. (Answer: a tactful ‘no’.)

You and Rick trail behind Beth and Jerry In a mostly empty department store on a Thursday morning. Beth has a day off work at the Equine Clinic. Jerry strongly deflects when you are curious about his profession, and Rick supplies a belch and something about ‘pathetic mooch who can’t even rub one out without crying-- yeaahhh don’t think I can’t hear you every damn night in your study, _Jerry._ ’

“How do you two know each other, again?” Beth is keenly inquisitive.

“Church,” you say, at the same time Rick chimes in with: “She’s my k-lax dealer.” 

“Addiction support,” you lie and force a smile, wishing you could stomp on Rick’s foot without anyone noticing.

Rick leans in and says in a stage whisper. “She’s a nymphomaniac.” 

You’re not. Although, given the chance, you’ll ride Rick’s cock almost anywhere. You think about him more than must be healthy, have admitted this to him, which only made him impish. He does his best to encourage your worst urges. 

Beth and Jerry stand at the register, talking through a litany of returns and exchanges, while the cashier goes through all the re-used shopping bags they brought. Rick lasts exactly twenty seconds, the amount of time it takes for him to get out his flask and take a drink, before he pulls you aside. 

“Come-- c’mon with me. I need more shirts.” He spirits you behind a nearby display table of jeans.

You grab his ass as you follow him, earning a grumpy look from over his shoulder. “What? I like your old man butt. It’s cute.”

“It’s non-existent,” he hisses, peering around furtively. Between the table, and several racks of shirts, you are mostly obscured. Not quite a line of sight to his family.

“I didn’t know you wore these kinds of s—“ you start to remark, but he claps his hand over your mouth.

“Hush— quiet.” He backs you against the table, the edge right at your hips. His rough voice is hoarse with sudden lust. “D-do you-- think you can keep quiet if I fuck you right here?” _No._ Normally Rick loves to hear his name on your lips-- moaned or screamed or whimpered. He delights in provoking you, and making himself the very center of your existence, and you doubt you’ll be able to stay quiet, but his free hand ghosts up your bare leg, under your dress, your panties. His fingers find your clit and rub little circles, and he watches you with a lewd grin. He knows he has you already. 

You nod once, yes, a little urgent, and it’s all he needs. He takes his hand away, turns you around more roughly than necessary. Beth and Jerry are arguing with the cashier about something in the return policy. Rick drags your attention back to him by rolling his hips against yours. He’s hard in his trousers; you peek behind you to glimpse his massive erection straining the fabric before he redirects you with his hand on the back of your head.

“Face forward, you can-- I’ll let you ogle it later.”

He lifts your dress and shoves your panties down your thighs. They stay there, just under the curve of your ass, and you lean over. “Good girl, th-that’s my good little--” a burp obscures his next word. “I lift your dress and you bend over automatically. Aaaaalways ready to- to take my dick--” 

And he kicks your legs apart. “Wider, slut.”

You shift, obeying, arousal quickening in your core. You hear the clink of his belt buckle, the zip of his fly. Then feel his cock, hard and hot, pressing against the line of your ass. 

“You really think you can st-- can do it without attracting any attention, we’ll, uh, we’ll see. Usually you can’t help it, all those noises you make, _fffuck_ you sound sexy.”

Rubs the head of his cock along your slit, through the moisture. And goes a little higher, over the sensitive puckered skin, and you give a moan that’s a little too loud over the bland Muzak on the store speakers, because _damn_ it feels good and he hasn’t even started yet. First strike. 

He chuckles, his breath hot on your neck. You can smell whiskey on it, no surprise, mingling with the crisp chemical scent of the green soap he uses. “I-I-I know, baby, you want me to fuck your ass open, don’t you. Such a slut for a fat dick in your ass, th-that’s— you’re so fucking hot, but we don’t— there’s no time. And you’d _scream_. Yeaaah you would, and then my daughter would come over here, and while I don’t give a shit, I know you _do_ … your generation really needs to”—he aligns himself and oh _god_ he’s big— “loosen up.”

He shoves into your wet cunt with a single, deep thrust. You gasp before he has a chance to silence you. 

“Dad?” 

At the sound of Beth’s voice you freeze, involuntarily clench around Rick’s cock, and his breath hitches before he comes up with a lie. “D-don’t-- keep away, sweetie, I-I-I ripped ass over here, it’s deadly. Stay a-- stay back.” He stuffs his long fingers in your mouth, growls, low and dangerous, “if you think you’re going to moan again, bite.” Desire pulses through you at that, and you suck his fingers wantonly, rock your hips back to tell him you want more.

He starts moving in you, so slowly you think you might break apart. His voice stays in your ear the whole time, rendering your most secret thoughts in a gruff undertone that makes you even wetter. He tells you that you like him precisely because of the things he’s not. He’s not young. He’s not handsome, or gentle. He’s not nice. You agree, and wonder at all the kinds of memories you’ll never make with him. Romantic mornings, all dusty gold and tender under rumpled sheets. Fitting yourself to his body, and him clinging to all your curves. Only sounds of breathing and skin on skin, no need to say anything.

But that’s not him. Right here, right now. _These_ are your memories with him. Clandestine, lurid, and mostly convenient. This is how he masters you, instead, slow and raw. Every thrust is measured, deliberate, filling you exquisitely.

Even with his fingers in your mouth you struggle to stay quiet, your need to cum elevated from the worry that Beth or Jerry, or anyone could just happen to walk past and catch you. And yet it’s thrilling. The tension is all you; Rick remains unhurried, a counterpoint to your mounting desperation. You moan around his fingers, your own saliva drips down your chin. Never, throughout it, do you forget the risk. It hums in the back of your mind, makes the feeling of Rick’s cock pumping into you that much sweeter. 

It’s a small miracle that he manages to stay relatively silent, even as he fucks you. He keeps his pace with long, even strokes, rolling his hips. You grasp at his lithe, corded forearm, starting to reach for your climax, and he finally orders you to touch your clit. Braced on one arm, you rub your fingers on the wet, sensitive flesh and you’re nearly gone. Feel his fat cock splitting you open, stretching you, and you take it all, tightening around him as pleasure swells and washes over you. _Fuck yes, Rick, please, Rick._ It’s a feverish mantra in your head. You bite down on his fingers, hard, unable to make your supplications to his name aloud; he groans, seeming to hear you anyway, and it undoes him. 

He can’t resist as you draw him in, as you milk his cock, he pants into your hair, you’re so gorgeous, your sweet cunt swallowing his dick, and _oh fffuck you’re perfect._ He rides your release to his own, still at his own leisure. He buries his face against your neck, presses a wet kiss there to muffle his throaty groan as he cums, filling you with more slickness. 

He withdraws with little fanfare. Even if the time and place were appropriate for cuddles, he can’t tolerate closeness. 

You pull your panties up to catch his seed before it leaks out too much. But your thighs still get sticky, and you walk bow-legged beside Rick as he ambles back to his daughter and son-in-law. This memory will be a fond secret, you imagine, warm with residual excitement. He gets out his flask again, and when he notices you watching him, winks, and offers you some.


	31. Priest Rick x reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Priest Rick demands a confession.
> 
> tags: humiliation, ass eating, anal sex

“Y-you know why you’re here, my child? Yes?” Father Rick does not look up from the heavy tome on his desk as you let yourself into his office.

“Umm… I only gave 9.8% tithes instead of 10%?” 

He is unamused by your nonchalance. “Your confessions have taken a somewhat cavalier tone, of late. If you even bother to come at all.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” you say, not particularly contrite. You can’t tell him the real reason you’ve been avoiding confession, and the church in general. You can’t tell him how distracted you get during his sermons, fixated on his elegant, long-fingered hands. Growing warm hearing his gruff voice warn of the dangers of overindulgence-- exactly what you can’t help doing: giving yourself over to lewd fantasies featuring the priest. 

Sight and sound are all you get, sitting in the seventh pew back, to the left. Every Sunday you squirm on the hard bench, in a dress just a little too short, because, hey, maybe this time?-- and squeeze your thighs together, watching his gaunt face and thinking about how, with his mouth between your legs, he would moan at the sweetness so long denied. You imagine what it might take to entice him to sin, and there are signs he could be amenable to it. How he surreptitiously pours measures from his flask into the glass of water atop his lectern. His stern glances in your direction, when you shift in your seat. And the way his eyes wander, on a hot day, tracking a single drop of sweat rolling down your cleavage. You’ve knelt before him to receive communion, and every time he places the wafer on your tongue, the urge to take more threatens to overwhelm you. To close your lips around his fingers, gazing up at him, and see his eyes widen--

“Nothing more to say?” He interrupts your reverie. “So be it. I’m afraid simple words of contrition will no longer suffice. It’s-- insincere penitence isn’t good enough.” 

You recognize this as a chance to, perhaps, redeem yourself, if not spiritually, at least with Father Rick. You recount all your misdeeds throughout the week: uncharitable thoughts of others, taking the Lord’s name in vain, idolatry, etc. However, Rick is shrewd, and swiftly hones in on your lie of omission with a pointed question.

“A-and what of your private moments? Nothing amiss?” He swigs from a flask, which lures you to feel comfortable admitting that you do take care of your body’s needs. 

Too risky. He seizes on this revelation, and presses you. “One time? D-did-- was it curiosity that led you astray, my child?”

Technically, yes: interest in _him_ , and even now, his presence ignites a base desire in you. “Not just once, Father.”

“No? How many times?”

You clear your throat, searching for any number in your head that sounds legitimate, but the truth is-- “I don’t know. I lost count. Sometimes two or three times a day.”

“Every day?”

“...nearly.”

He stands, coming around his desk, expression inscrutable. “Tell me how.”

You swallow thickly. “I… what?”

He rolls his eyes. “D-do I-- am I really gonna be forced to drag this out of you? Prompt you at every turn? Are you simple? Y-y-you said you’ve committed the sin. Now _tell me._ ”

You clasp your hands behind your back to hide your fidgeting. “At least once a day, before I go to sleep. In bed, under the covers. And I’m wearing pajamas--”

“And?” He interrupts with a belch after taking another drink. “Fantasies? Wh-who do you think about?”

Your face burns. He knows, his tone makes it obvious, but he will have you say it. When you speak, your voice is as small as you can make it, and you will yourself to shrink, unable to meet his eyes. “You, Father.”

“C-can’t say it without blushing, huh? Wh-- you think that might be a sign? LIke maybe, you know you’ve done wrong. And that in itself is a sin.” He shakes his head. “Look at me, child. Be--eeeurgh-- be honest in your confession. What do you do when you think about me? What goes through your mind?” 

“I think about kissing you. And… seeing your head between my legs. I fantasize about that. About you eating my pussy. And I touch myself.” Tears of abject humiliation prick your eyes, and he grabs your jaw in one hand to prevent you from evading him. 

“ _Slut_. Y-you— don’t look away.” His patience is quickly waning. Up close, you see the age lines on his face, bags under his eyes, a bit of stubble. Drool makes his lower lip and chin shiny; you want to lick it off and then press your lips to his. “Describe it.”

Arousal and embarrassment swell in you together, hot and choking. You can’t. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he lets you go, only to usher you to brace yourself with your hands on the edge of his desk.

He flips up the hem of your skirt, tucks it in the waistband, then yanks your panties down around your knees. All brusque and impersonal. Most of the noise he makes is from the metallic slosh of liquor in his flask. He can see everything, and when you peer over your shoulder, you note that his face is tinged pink. He looks like he’s struggling to restrain himself.

“Show me.” His voice is hoarse.

Mortified, you bend over further, spreading your legs as wide as your panties allow. Snake a hand down your front and run your fingers through your slit. Your panties are damp, you had felt that when he pulled them down. Your cunt is soaked. Wet and swollen and over-sensitized. You circle your fingers on your clit, slow, experimenting, to see if he’ll say anything more-- this is for him. 

“Tell me again. Th-the, uh-- your wayward thoughts.” 

You don’t hesitate this time, though rising need makes your voice waver. “Kissing you, feeling your stubble and tasting the liquor on your breath. And sitting in the front pew, after the service, when everyone’s gone, I’d wait there, in my nice dress. And I-- you’d come to me, and kneel, and push my legs apart. Bite the skin on my thighs and then--” your breath catches, you slip one finger in, press your palm to your clit “--lick my cunt.”

He grunts. “Not gonna happen.” You hear rustling of heavy fabric-- his cassock-- he’s kneeling behind you now, his face level with your ass. “Don’t st-- keep doing that. Y-you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, could you? Greedy sluts like you always need more. Always tempting others, co-eeurgh--rrupting others to your libertine ways.” He grips each cheek, his long fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips and you shudder at the layer of pain it adds to your mounting need. He spreads you for himself, exposing you further, after you’ve already laid bare your most intimate secrets. You can deny him nothing. 

“Anything else?” He growls, before his tongue darts out, flicks to the sensitive puckered skin. You gasp in surprise. The vulnerability of the position, the denigration of allowing him there, and the enjoyment he takes from it, make your chest tighten with shame. And with shame, tightly wound pleasure. He starts licking in earnest, and you withdraw your finger from your pussy, going back to rubbing your clit. There is yet more to disclose, but it’s becoming difficult to concentrate. 

He swirls his tongue around your hole, low moans issuing. His hands squeeze your ass, holding you in place when you try to squirm. He raises his head briefly, sounding irritated. “I asked if there’s anything else, you little slut. Any other desecrations of our faith?” 

He delivers a sharp smack when, again, you don’t answer. 

“I had a dream about you fucking my ass,” you whisper, shutting your eyes against fresh tears. He gives a low hum of approval, resumes licking. You can see, from an odd angle, that his vestment is open at the front, and he palms his hard cock. The sight floods you with another gush of arousal; you push your hips back, imagining him sinking that thick length into you, all the while his control hanging by a thread. 

You tell him this, in so many words-- _Father Rick, please, I want your dick in my ass_ \-- and he gets up, abruptly.

You hear a muttered ‘fuck’ and the slosh of his flask once more. Then his fingers, first one inserted into the tight ring of muscle, then a second. It’s slick with his saliva, but not enough. He spits, works you open, even as his erection nudges your inner thigh, so close to your pussy. “Entertaining fantasies of teasing-- of tempting a man of the cloth from his sacred vows. Shameful. 

“You think you deserve forgiveness? Lenience?” He asks, though you have no answer other than a whimper. He aligns the blunt head of his cock to your ass and starts to push in, the hole tight and unyielding. Inch by inch, the sting is exquisite, and your fingers on your clit still. You can’t help it. His girth fills your ass, a mocking counterpoint to your aching empty cunt. 

“We have-- there is no need for false piety. Th-this is-- you should have told me, that this is the guidance you need.” 

He rolls his hips, fully seated in your ass, and the movement lights up every synapse in your body. You moan, something close to his name. 

“All you wanted is to-- is for me to fuck you.”

You exult in the roughness of his voice, the unrestrained lust that finally breaches the surface of his devout repression.

“Say it, slut,” he growls. One hand on your lower back, the other grabs your hip. “Lemme-- I wanna hear you, then we can get to the business o-of atonement.”

“Yes, Father Rick, please please fuck me.” The final confession he demands tumbles from your lips, the last remnant of your virtue discarded as you beg the priest to defile you.

And he does. With your virtue goes his self-discipline. He fucks you open at a brutal pace, unrelenting, and his teachings shift to the obscene. “This is how you like it, huh? Like a- an old man shoving his fat dick right up your tight little ass.”

You moan your agreement, grateful he hasn’t stopped you from touching your clit. Your fingers circle there, at times matching his rhythm. Need coils in you, an unbearable ache, and you whine for more, harder, deeper.

Again, Father Rick provides. He pounds you, his huge cock splitting you open, deep enough that you feel when his balls press against the lips of your pussy. His small office is filled with the sounds of carnality and perversion: the blunt slap of his hips to yours, his breathy groans, his exhortation and praise, to take his cock like the slut you are.

You begin to reach for bliss, and redemption. He feels you, and urges you to it, both his hands on your hips. His fingers grip painfully hard. 

“Th-thaaat’s right, m-- you wanna cum, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” You are close, so close, walking the line dividing salvation and ruination. 

“Y-y-you’re gonna cum with my dick in your ass. I’d say that makes you a slut. Lemme hear it. W-what are you?”

“A slut.” Him saying it is one thing. Admitting it yourself will be your downfall. You burn with humiliation, which in turn twines with your arousal.

He fists a hand in your hair and wrenches your head back. “Louder.” 

You sob, and say it again, along with his name, please Rick. All your shame and guilt and pain and lust come together-- 

His hips snap forward, and unravel it all. You cum with a wail, god, Rick. Everything goes magnificently, sublimely blank for a moment, lifting you, and then crashing down. Pure, searing pleasure overtakes, and you spasm around his thick length, dragging him with you. He imparts to you something divine: the spectacular discharge of all his pent-up need. 

You hear him, distantly, saying things a priest should never say--you wanton little slut, you fucking whore-- he buries himself to the hilt, abandoning all rhythm, callous to your discomfort in his pursuit of release. He repeats your name like a mantra as he pumps cum into your ass, clinging to you. His movements go slower, slick, his ragged breathing settles. Gradually, he remembers himself.

When he withdraws, you sink to your knees. The only way you’d still been upright was his vice grip on you. You are aware that his load is dripping down your thighs, onto your panties and his floor, but you’re too spent to move. 

The perspective is familiar, from the many times you’ve received communion by his hand. He is not so beneficent now. He tucks himself away, and aside from his pallid face having a bit more color than usual, he is as severe as ever.

“Wh-what are you waiting for?” He snaps. Time to drink again. He retrieves his flask and tips it back. “Get your-- make yourself decent. I expect you in confession next week, and if we have to repeat this little exercise, I won’t be so indulgent a second time.”


	32. Rick x reader parody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick encounters a new Reader.

“Whoa! Wh-what the fuck?! Who are you? How’d you get past the security systems?” Rick scrambles up from his bed, then stops short when he turns on a light and really sees you. (Awestruck by your beauty, no doubt.)

You are named Serenity Valentine. You are 22 years old, with long brunette hair, which changes colors based on your mood, and your eyes reflect the eternity of the cosmos, so profound and vast that Rick could get lost gazing into their de—

“Are you fucking _done?_ ” He interrupts your description. 

“Umm. N-no I wasn’t but I’m sorry, daddy!” You bite your lip innocently, though you have a witty retort prepared.

He makes a noise of disgust. “You’re one of those. New neighbor, right? Or no, wait. Morty’s tutor? Summer’s friend, who we’ve inexplicably never seen before?” He draws a gun and presses the barrel to your forehead. “Are you a fucking parasite? Well, you unoriginal little punk ass little bitch, are you?!” Flecks of his spittle hit your face and a moan escapes your plump, perfect lips. 

“Oh _daddy._ ” He’s going to be overcome with emotion and make love to you, any minute now. 

Instead, he draws back, cringing. “Yeeesh, cut it out with that, would ya, Y/N? I’m not buying you anything, y-you think I’m loaded or something? I mooch off my adult daughter and her family and fly around in a SHIP MADE OF GARBAGE.” He yells towards the end, then grabs a half-finished bottle of beer from his desk. Gulps it down, and burps in your face. 

You blink, then giggle nervously. “Umm, okay. Wow, your room is so…wow! So much stuff!”

Rick sneers. “What are you, a simple English version of Wikipedia? Know anything longer than 3 syllables?”

“I’m just here for you, daddy! I know you’re mean, and you don’t really like people, but—“ you meet his eyes and flutter your eyelashes, which are perfect, even without makeup. “I know you’re hurting inside. I know, because I am too. I know you need help, and I’m here for you. I’m here for… whatever you need.” You breathe in a sultry voice. 

“Ooookay fine, y-you know what, I got something you can help me with.” You think you hear him mutter ‘you little shit’ under his breath.

“Did you just say you love my tits?” You giggle, arms in front of you, pushing your cleavage together. 

He squints in the direction of your well-endowed chest. “...no. Nooooo thank you. You just— and I have no idea how this is possible— you just ruined tits for me.” He shakes his head, then shoves past you. “It’ll pass. Now— follow me. Come on, Sereni— uh, Y/N, got some, got a real important science project.”

You flounce after him to the garage. In the garage is his workshop, filled with many science devices and gadgets.

You pick up a hammer and ask in a flirty tone, “oooh, do you have anything I can bang?”

His frown is severe. Rick is so much more dangerous and interesting than the pathetic guys your own age who either all have crushes on you, or don’t notice you at all. 

He takes a drink from his flask, then busies himself at the workbench. You wander around, even though he had pointed to the floor and told you to sit down and shut up. 

You had simply bounced on your toes, given him a cheeky grin, and smacked him lightly on the arm. “Oh, you’re so funny! Can I please help you now?” 

His brow furrows. “No. Go—eeugh— go play with the power tools.”

Two minutes later… “Oh! Daddy, help! My hair is caught in the bandsaw! Teehee!” You are so clumsy, which is endearing. And your hair turns fuschia, which is the color of being adorably awkward. 

Although it’s nearly silent in the garage, Rick calls out loudly, “what was that, Y/N? I couldn’t hear you.” He doesn’t turn around to look, but continues talking, telling you to explore the garage to your heart’s content, even suggesting that the belt sander would work great as an exfoliating tool for your face— although your skin is naturally flawless. 

Once you have disentangled yourself from the bandsaw, and avoided any more mishaps, you come and peer over his shoulder. You don’t have any advanced education, because Rick wouldn’t approve of that, but you did read memorize some science facts, and you have a way of just knowing the right answer to everything. And you notice that he’s doing something _wrong_. You have to tell him.

“Ummm… I think the blue wire is supposed to be connected first, daddy.” You’re so worried about him, about this cranky, crazy old man. 

Rick goes still, completely silent. He must be so impressed by your genius that—

“If you _ever_ —“ he rises, towering over you “—try to correct me again—“ and waves a hot soldering iron in your face “— I will brand you with this soldering iron and sell you in the slave markets of Obtherian-5!”

You blush. “W-what would you brand me with, daddy?” 

He grumbles, sitting back down. “Don’t call me that.”

“I have a secret, daddy.” You lean in close and whisper sexily in his ear, ignoring that it’s a very gross, old man ear with hair in it. 

“Uh huh.” He says at normal volume. “Not that I care, but spit it out. And don’t stand so close, unless you’re okay with inhaling shards of— y-you know what, you’re fine right there.”

“I already have a brand, sort of!” You turn around and flip up your pleated plaid schoolgirl skirt to reveal your perfectly shaped ass. On the right cheek is a cute little birthmark, which is shaped like a heart. “See?!” You squeal excitedly. Also the birthmark has magic powers.

He barely glances at it. “I hope you understand that I’m saying this about you, in general, and not denigrating birthmarks, but: gross.”

You huff angrily, turning around to face him. “Uh… why aren’t you obsessed with me yet?” You demand, with a sassy hand on your sassy hip.

He picks up the device he’s been working on and motions for you to stand back. Then he turns the little satellite dish on you. It beeps a few times, after which he looks down at the display. “Yep, I was right.”

“It must be picking up the magical signal from my birthmark! I told you, we’re meant for e—!”

“Too dumb to fuck.” He sighs, grumbles to himself. “Like a needed a damn machine to tell me that.” He puts the satellite dish aside, and sexily pulls a portal gun from the recesses of his lab coat. He aims over your shoulder and shoots open a portal right behind you.

“What are you talking about, daddy?” You pout. “Are we going on an adventure now? It’s taken you long enough! Speaking of long things~ heehee! I think I see someone’s getting excited.”

“Mhmm.” He stalks toward you, a wicked grin painting his features. “Thaaaat’s right, Y/N, my little— you little groundhog. Dimension MS-369. It’s an amazing place! You’ll fit right in. Th-there’s so many just like you, Y/N, you got your Ebony’s, and your Star— Starflame, Starfires. Got your Anastasias and even Serenity. That’s right, there’s gotta be at least 200 other Serenity’s, all crammed in there. And guess what happens if you stay too long in this dimension? Your hair will start to turn brown. Mousy, non-special brown!”

“What? Daddy, no!!”

His cruel smile widens. “You probably won’t last long enough for that, though. All the special girls there all look the same by now. Dangle anything new in front of them, anything _colorful_ , i-i-it’s like chumming the water…” 

Suddenly he delivers a powerful Sparta kick to your chest. 

“Owww my boob!” You shriek, even as you topple backward. 

The last thing you hear as the portal swallows you is Rick’s cruel laughter, punctuated by foul belches. “Hahahaha yeah, get one of you fuckers every week! Hasta la vista, biiiiiiiiiiitch!”


	33. That black choker necklace from the 90s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader is wearing that black choker necklace from the 90s.
> 
> tags: anal sex, mild breathplay/choking

You emerge from the bedroom all done up: dress, heels, makeup, jewelry. You saunter over to Rick, who has sprawled his lissom frame out on your couch, easily taking up eighty percent of the space. “I’m ready, let’s go.”

He picks one thing to hone in on, and it’s not how fabulous you look. “You— that necklace. Uhhh. Ahem. _Wow._ ”

“What?” You touch the plastic lace ringing your neck. “This? It’s a choker, you know like from the 90s. I found it in my jewelry box. Thought it was cute.”

Rick grins. “Yeah, I know— I remember when they were popular. You know what it means though, right?” He rises from the couch with a look you know all too well— a mischievous gleam in his eyes— drains his bottle and tosses it on the rug. 

“Uh… that in middle school I wanted to be way edgier than I actually was?” You eye the bottle, wondering if it’s ever worth asking him to clean up the messes he makes.

His smile widens, he comes around to stand behind you, hands at your waist, playing along your curves. You grow warm; he is entirely too tall, and _old_ , to have the effect he does on you, and yet... 

“There was a chick I dated— wellllll, technically not a man or woman, changed its gender at will, sometimes a redhead with huge tits, other times a— this gorgeous jacked dude, _anyway_ , my point is, we met at a concert and it was wearing one of those necklace things because literally everyone in the multiverse knows that’s the signal for ‘I like taking it up the ass’.”

 _“What?!”_ There’s no way that’s true. “What if I had worn an all-denim outfit, like the early 2000’s. Any hidden meaning there?”

“Y-you mean-- you really don’t know. Shit, yeah. Universal code, right there. The, uh, the look tells everyone you’re down for ritualistic lesbian orgies.”

At your skeptical look, craning around to see him, he continues. “Scowl at me allll you want, baby, it won’t change the facts. A-and so what you’re telling me, wearing this, is that you want me to fuck you in the butt. Right?” He presses his hips against your ass for emphasis, showing you he’s already hard.

You huff out a sigh, tamping down the pulse of arousal you get feeling his cock through the layers of clothes. The answer is yes, but you won’t tell him that. “Rick, we’re gonna be late.”

“Tha—eeugh—at’s not even close to making it onto a list of things I care about. Bend— go on, over the couch. Right there.”

You start to protest, falling silent when his hand at the back of your neck forces you down. You glimpse him take a small clear bottle from within his lab coat before your face is pressed to the leather. 

“I-I said ass up, baby, right up in the air.” He hums in approval. “Damn, you look good like that. Y-y-your natural place.” He flips the hem of your dress up, yanks your panties down more roughly than necessary, ripping the delicate fabric.

“How do you somehow always have lube on hand?” Your breath comes out shaky, nervous, annoyed that he’s going to make you late and he’s well on his way to ruining your outfit, but really—

“Because you always like getting your ass fucked.” You hear the cap click open, feel the cool, viscous fluid as he drizzles it on your exposed flesh. 

—really, this is what you crave. You lift your hips to meet his fingers. He strokes the liquid over the puckered opening, dipping in, preparing you for his massive cock. He works you open, first one finger, then adding a second. With his other hand he rubs circles on your clit, the slickness of your arousal mixing with the slippery lube.

You moan, giving up the pretense of resistance. Who are you to deny him? He will lay you out, exactly the way he wants you, and prompt you: _wh-what do you say, slut? You want my dick, ask for it._

You plead, no simple asking will suffice, and when he takes his fingers away, aligns his cock to your asshole, you offer him everything.

 _“Rick…”_

And he still takes more than what you can give. It always hurts at first, always stings when he pushes in.

As he does now. Going slow, no choice because he’s too big, and you’re too tight. Of course, that’s his favorite thing, he growls to you, describing with gleeful perversion how perfectly his cock fits in your ass.

 _Fuck he’s huge._ You whimper to him, how his girth splits you open, beg him for less, beg him for more. It hurts, and it’s _wonderful._

He rolls his hips, starts to penetrate deeper, fucking you open at his luxury. He knows you have somewhere to be, knows you made plans, and doesn’t care. 

The significance of this position does not escape you. He loves bending you over, making you bow before his sovereignty. You can’t reach your clit from here, your hips are flush with the arm of the couch, and besides, he wouldn’t let you. 

You rise to him anyway, your pussy empty, raw. The fullness he imparts comes with a twinge of pain, only spurring your desire. 

“Ohhhh _fffuck yes._ An ass like yours just needs— I just feel like-- eeugh-- pounding it.”

You moan, his name issuing as a pathetic supplication. 

“Yeahhh, that’s it you little slut, you can take it.” He belches, leans over you further, bracing his hand at your lower back. His other hand goes to your neck, he twists the necklace around his fingers and pulls. The plastic threads dig into your neck, not quite enough to choke you at first. Enough to hurt, and steal away logic before breath. You dig your nails into the couch, gaining no purchase, your neck is forced up in a backward arch.

And still, you are awash in lush desire, as Rick strokes into you. Deep enough that his balls press to your pussy lips. He groans, his voice low with need, “Y-you-- you’re so fucking _gorgeous_ \--” He breaks off, breathing hard. 

You give a strangled whine in response, consciousness seeping away.

The moment he lets go of the necklace is his gift to you: a wealth of pleasure. It sparks in your core, and ripples out, searing your nerves and you’re so close. You forget yourself in your desperation, plead for him to touch your clit.

It’s not so much that he knows what you like and caters to your every need. It’s that he has his own demands, and you happen to enjoy fulfilling them. So often you are merely a vessel into which he pours his lusts, his vices, his deviance, and that, in itself, is your privilege.

Nevertheless, he shows mercy, amused by your wanton display. He presses a thumb to your clit, praising you, and _don’t you just love taking this old man dick? Y-you wanna cum with my fat cock in your ass, say it, slut._

You wail your assent, and his name, over and over. His thick length stretches you-- and you snap, orgasm slams into you. You squeeze around him as your empty cunt spasms. Your bliss rivets him, necessitates that he hold you in place as he fucks you, until his rhythm fails. His voice at release is a contradiction, gruff and sensual-- and he groans your name-- “god _damn_ y-your ass is perfect and tight, a-and all you want is for me to shove my dick in it, such a good _slut_ , I’m gonna--” 

He pumps cum into your ass, his movements slowing, slick. You are full again, when he pulls out, you stay down, not trusting your legs to support you. 

Rick smacks your ass, not lightly. “Hey! Quit dawdling. Don’t we have somewhere to be?”

You get up gingerly, and some of his cum dribbles down your inner thighs. “I’m taking the necklace off, I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”

“What? No no no no. That stays on, baby. I want eeeeveryone to know how much of a slut you are.”

You sigh. “Fine. I need to go change and clean up though.” At his raised eyebrow, you clarify: “need new panties. And if what you said about denim is true, I’d better go put on some jeans.”


	34. Cock worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick x reader
> 
> light bondage, cock worship, rough bj

“Why did I agree to this, again?” Rick fixes you with a glare.

You saunter towards him, secure in the knowledge that, at the moment, he won’t be able to push you to your knees, or bend you over and shove your face in a pillow. He is tied to the bed, flat on his back and spread-eagle, and the vulnerability of the position makes him more waspish than usual. “Because you’re an impatient bastard—”

“I thought that’s what you _liked_ about me.” His cock lies hard and heavy against his stomach; you eye it hungrily and lick your lips. You’ve dreamed about this, all the times you’ve prostrated yourself, debased yourself for only a quick, rough taste.

“— _And_ because if you had your way you’d already be balls deep in my ass, and while you know I love that, sometimes I just want to do things in my own time.”

Rick growls as you climb onto the bed, straddle one of his long, thin legs. “Fuck that. Suck my dick. A-and if you do a good job I’ll drill your ass afterward, even— might even let you touch your clit.”

“Mmm. How could I turn down an offer like that...” You lower your head not to his jutting erection but to his ribs. They protrude even more as he arches to your mouth. You do what you know drives him mad: you are gentle, and leisurely. Kiss the lines under his pallid skin, nibble at them. You palm his cock and stroke it, just as slow.

“I want to look at it first.” You explain, voice muffled as you work your way down his body. “I never get to look at it long enough.”

Rick groans in exasperation, the lift of his hips betraying his urgency. “Who fu-eeeurgh—ucking cares, it’s a dick.”

“Yes, but it’s yours, and it’s very nice looking.”

“I alrea—eeugh-dy know that. Stop-- stop fucking teasing.” He cranes his neck to watch as you lick the concave plane of his stomach. 

Your hand still strokes his length. “It doesn’t feel good?” 

His only answer is a shuddering exhale when you bite one sharp hip bone. Might be hard enough to bruise. He’s told you before he likes it, likes the aching reminders you leave on him. It is a rare luxury, taking your time like this, and feels risky. But you trail kisses across his warm skin, desire pooling between your thighs, and think that perhaps you’ll ride him after this, still unhurried, let him come undone beneath you.

At last, you turn to his cock. It is so much more than just nice looking, and you are compelled to list the terms of your worship.

You lick a stripe up the underside, base to tip, marveling at how the skin is hot and silky. Your arousal persists as a low hum. “I like how long your cock is.” You let a gob of your saliva drop on the tip, then take him in your mouth. 

He moans, a delicious, helpless sound that almost makes you abandon your ministrations in favor of sating your own desire. You release him with a pop, refocus. “I like the veins.” And you get to take your time and trace them with your tongue. “The way you taste, all musky and salty, you taste so good.”

He can’t resist chiming in, his voice tense with need. “Y-y-you like m— you love the taste of my ball sweat so much how about you lick them, you little slut?”

You do, dipping to lave them, murmuring that you like the wrinkles before sucking them, one at at time, in your mouth. 

He snarls curses at you, praise and exhortation in the same breath. 

You return to his magnificent cock, pause to deliver one last thought. “And I love how thick it is, there’s a… it hurts, every time you fuck me, but I like it. Your cock fills me perfectly, Rick.” Your voice is low, hoarse. The admission is embarrassing to say aloud, maybe unnecessary since he must already know it, but his hands clench to fists. 

His brow is a V of annoyance, he tries to buck into your mouth but the restraints allow him no leverage. “What is it, a toy? A-a-a-a lollipop? Quit fuckin around, suck my dick, do it right.”

You lock eyes with him, smile innocently, make sure he watches you swirl your tongue around the fat, swollen head. His arms are taut as he strains against his bindings, and just as you close your lips all the way around his shaft, you hear something dangerous— the ropes snap.

His hand is at the back of your head immediately, he grabs your hair and pulls you off his cock, only long enough to drag you off the side of the bed. 

Your knees hit the floor, and bright sparks of pain shoot through your legs. “Rick—“ you only manage his name before he cuts you off, shoving his erection in. You splutter around his girth, it forces your tongue flat, makes your jaw ache and your eyes water. Fear and excitement flood you, a potent combination that eclipses your soft fantasies from earlier.

“This is how you should worship me, slut. None of that slow teasing _bullshit_. I-if you’re gonna suck my dick, do it right a-and f— and choke on it.” Freed, his grin is terrible and furious. 

You gaze up at him, lips stretched around his cock, content in your place at his feet. Grateful for it. 

He forces your head back, standing almost directly over you, and fucks your mouth. You gag around him, eyes wide as you look up the length of his gaunt body. Trade one kind of fawning supplication to his ego for another, you still revere him, deify him and exult in his favor.

And he uses you, bites his lip, which is shiny with drool. His smile is perverse, he delights in corrupting you, and in knowing you will crawl back for more. He pushes in particularly deep, hitting the back of your throat. The sparse hairs around the base of his cock brush your nose, his balls press hot and heavy against your chin. He is close already, you can tell, his hand in your hair tightens. His eyes are hooded, watching his shaft disappear between your lips, come out new and shiny. 

“I-isn’t this-- this is what you wanted, isn’t it? Y-you— you’re gonna swallow my cum. D-don’t spill a drop, this is for you. I-I— It’s my gift to you, better not waste any or you’re licking it off the floor, slut—“

He breaks off, praises your deviance, but lapses into incoherence. His strokes grow erratic, deep and fast, fucking your face, chasing his release. Until finally he stiffens. He groans as he cums— another item to add to your list, that gruff pleasure in his voice. His seed fills your mouth, salty and bitter, you swallow around his fat cock even as tears roll down your cheeks, your jaw aching. 

He rewards you with rare attention. When he releases your hair, he allows you to lick his softening cock clean, then bends, inspecting your flushed face. “W-we’re not done here, baby, all that flattery was— I wanna hear what you have to say when I’m railing that perfect ass. So, uhhh, go on. Get ready.” He grins, presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes. You are bound to him. Deferent, faithful, adoring.


	35. Watch Rick jack off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch Rick masturbate and discover something interesting about his choice of jack off material.
> 
> tags: voyeurism, masturbation

Seeing Rick with his guard down is an infrequent experience, and thus it is one you hold dear and precious, and can never admit to him. The times early in the morning, when he’s hungover, or still too drunk to portal home, so he stays in your bed, twines his limbs with yours and soaks up your heat. Comfort he only wants because he’s half-conscious, and the kind of quiet intimacy he reviles, but won’t remember anyway.

The rarest of all, though, is getting to watch him masturbate. If he notices you, he will draw you in, replace his hand with your mouth, or else make a lurid, smirking show of it. Not that you mind, but there is something that makes you hold your breath, to see him vulnerable and genuine.

To witness his raw, straining need laid bare, as you do now.

You stand, shadowed, in the doorway. Rick slouches on the sofa, his long legs sprawled wide. He has his phone in one hand, and his attention is fixed on it, the same intent focus he has when he loses himself in a new experiment or discovery. 

His shirt is pushed up, revealing the stark angles of his hips and ribs. His free hand plays on his stomach, and it occurs to you that he never takes this much time when he’s not alone. Nor does he allow you the luxury of enjoying him like that. 

Rick is not self conscious about his age or looks, and that lack allows you to simply appreciate him. He grins and teases you when you tell him you like his age lines, and his saggy balls, and the slight softness of his stomach-- _what, y-you think it makes me less intimidating? Think an old man like me can’t fuck you up?_ \-- to which you shake your head. You don’t know why, can’t articulate it, and the affection you have for him encompasses all the grossness: his drool, the alcohol-drug pallor of his skin, crude sense of humor. Above all it’s his confidence in his own superiority, but quietly, you know attraction to that doesn’t explain anything. Perhaps you should feel guilty for this voyeurism but it’s too tempting. 

You grow warm, observing the particular ways he touches himself, and filing them away in memory, indelible. His long, tapered fingers ghost over his skin, tracing little patterns, and the idiosyncrasies fascinate you. (At one point, the spell is nearly broken when that same hand takes a break to scratch his neck, and he belches.) He lingers on places you’ve long suspected are sensitive, but he never affords you the opportunity to explore: along his ribs, his sides, the sparse trail of hair leading down below his waistband from his navel.

He bites his lower lip, moans at something. It’s a quieter sound than you’re used to hearing, but still low and rough, charged with lust. 

You swallow thickly, a reaction that is entirely too loud in your ears, but he doesn’t notice you. He is engrossed with whatever is on his phone. If he only glanced to his left, he would see you. You make no attempt to conceal yourself, save profound, awestruck silence. What could he possibly be reading? You’re sure he’s not watching porn, because he always turns the volume up obnoxiously high for that. 

As you watch, he unbuckles his belt and undoes his fly, all one-handed. The bulging outline of his erection is visible, and he rubs his shaft over the fabric of his underwear, which seems to barely contain his massive length. Two spots of color have appeared high on his cheeks; the rest of him is as pallid as usual.

“Ohhh _fffuck_ \--” He lets out a helpless, needy groan, followed by your name, and for a heartstopping moment you dread that the show is over but no--

He shoves his pants further down, along with his underwear, just enough to expose his cock and balls. His cock lies heavy and thick along his stomach, and he wraps his fingers around the hard shaft. With another delicious, carnal noise he starts stroking himself, slowly, a leisurely, decadent pace he’d never permit you. 

He brushes his thumb over the tip, squeezes a bit each time the ring of his thumb and middle finger pass over the swollen head. 

His lips part slightly, the little moans become more frequent. And in between these, he’s mouthing words as he reads-- whatever it is has him captivated. 

His busy hand slides down to cup his balls, leaving his cock standing straight up, and it bobs with his movements. 

He starts to roll his hips, even as he pulls and squeezes his balls; your mouth waters, unchecked desire trickles down your spine and pools low and hot in your core. You clench your hands into fists, the only movement you dare. You must see the end of this.  
Something in what he’s reading makes his hand return to his cock, which is pulsing, twitching, needs to be touched, and you think you can see where his impatience comes from. He is not a man who sees any point in denying his vices, not when they are so volatile and persistent. 

He fucks into his hand with long full strokes, balls swinging with his deliberate, bouncing pace.

And soon his breath catches. With it, his rhythm falters, imprecise and urgent.

He tosses the phone aside, and runs his free hand through his unruly hair. It springs right back up, spiky as ever. His eyes slip closed, his breath comes in short, desperate gasps until finally-- 

He tenses at his climax, hips rising. It’s a spectacular tableau, and you drink in the details greedily, wanting to inscribe them so you never forget. Rick’s unguarded pleasure is riveting; he is magnificent. All the corded muscle of his body flexing, to remind you he is flesh and bone. His hand ruffles through his hair over and over-- must like having it pulled a bit, you never knew. He tips his head back, bites his drool-slicked lower lip, though a primal groan issues anyway. At that you barely suppress a whimper; your own need is an insistent ache that makes you squeeze your thighs together. 

He keeps pumping his cock even as cum spurts out, thick ropes of it that arc and fall. Some lands on his stomach, dribbles down. More gets on his hands, and he doesn’t stop, moaning still from deep in his chest. Even a little on his neck and jaw and chin; his tongue darts out to taste it and you have to lean against the doorframe to steady yourself. When at last he slows, relaxing, he sighs. Relief. 

He lets his arms flop to either side and sits there limp and panting, in the same starfish position he takes when he falls asleep watching Ball Fondlers. After a minute he turns his head, cracks an eye. No shame, barely any reaction. “H-how long have you been standing there?”

You blink, the shock making you blithe. You’d thought you would be able to slip away before he saw you. “Uh. If I tell you, will you tell me what you were reading?” 

He has no problem answering. “Your stuff. Wh-what do you call it, Rick-x-reader? Me-you?”

Arousal flares in you, hotter than before. “You found it?” You squeak. There’s no reason to be shy, he obviously liked it. Still, you hang back, until he jerks his head.

“Come-- c’mere.” 

You hesitate. “You’re not mad? You’re not gonna, I dunno, sue me or something?”

“What? Hellllll nah! Next time you want a show you gotta watch my cam channel like everyone else. Bu--eeugh-t I mean-- Jesus. Shit.” He gestures to the cum on his stomach and hands. “You-- you see this, right?”

You nod, sitting next to him. 

“Well first things first, clean-- lick it up.” 

The command is welcome, a way to distance yourself from the jolting surprise of finding out that he had not only found all the dirty stories you’d written about him, but gotten off to them. You obey, sucking each of his fingers clean, then dive to lick his stomach and ribs, eliciting something between a chuckle and a moan-- _that’s my good girl, get--l- lick it all up, I know you want to, thirsty little slut_ \-- and the last bit, on his neck and jaw. His stubble scratches your tongue as you taste the salt and bitter musk.

Against his skin you murmur, you’d seen everything. He grabs your hair, forces you to meet his eyes.

“This-- your writing, that’s how you see me, baby? I-I-I know I’m great but-- shit. This is fucking hot. You’re givin me ideas here.”

You smile, not resisting when he pulls you onto his lap. He kisses you, he tastes of whiskey. “Why, any requests?”

“Mmm, so many.” He kisses you again, on the lips, then your neck, where he burps softly against your skin. 

Before things devolve into hot and heavy, as they always do, he poses one more question, his tone deceptively innocent: “Oh by the way. What’s the, uh, what’s this ‘Anal Crusade’ you keep mentioning?”


	36. DWC: rap battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what it says on the tin.

Rick kicks in the door, waving a .44 Smith & Wesson Special. You follow at his heels, heart pounding in your ears. Every instinct screams at you that this is a terrible idea, but then again, Rick said it would all be fine, after tossing you a rifle (which you had only a rudimentary understanding of how to use). And Rick’s self assurance has a way of winning out over your own subdued sense of self-preservation.

A horde of grotesque aliens greets the two of you. They surround a pristine white case, chittering and wiggling their antennae at each other.

A gleeful rage takes hold of Rick. That case is what he’s dragged you all over this supercluster looking for, a months-long odyssey for this rare ingredient required for another one of his obscure, moral grey area science projects. The only reason you’ve tolerated the ordeal is the disproportionate amount of time spent with Rick either in bars, or fucking him. All in all not bad, except for moments like this.

“Yeah, get some motherfuckers!” Rick empties a clip in one nearby monster. No good. The thing screeches, its myriad tentacles undulating— apparently not in pain, but rage. It lopes towards you, and you raise your gun and fire. The first shot goes wild, you forget that you’re supposed to look through the scope. You get lucky with your next shot. At 300 yards, the larger caliber round hits the thing in its leg; it goes down, hard… 

And gets back up a moment later, steady. It’s sprouted another leg. 

“Shit.” Rick reloads. “Shitshitshitshit.” 

More of them advance; you shoot, slowing a few. Adrenaline makes you fast, and accurate. You empty a 30 round magazine, manage to reload smoothly, somehow, though you’ve never done it before. “Rick?” You glance over at him, and see him flipping through a little notepad. “Rick! What the fuck are you doing?!” Your voice goes shrill. Whatever he said he needed from them can’t be worth this. “Open a portal, we can come back!”

He ignores you, muttering to himself. “What rhymes with— nope. Never mind... okay. Got it.” He squares his shoulders, takes a loose, wide legged stance. He swings his arms a little, rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and you think you hear him mutter ‘tiger style’ to himself before he proceeds to spit sick face-melting rhymes. 

“Look… I was gonna go easy on you, not to hurt your feelings.... Just kidding biiii--eeugh--itch! Check me out!” Literally face-melting. The aliens spasm and writhe as their flesh oozes from their bones. He goes too fast for you to follow every lyric, though you do catch some of them, and realize they’re cobbled together from familiar songs.

“Big dicks in your ass… bad for your health!” He grabs his crotch for emphasis. You happen to disagree. Rick’s massive cock is a joy, however he gives it to you-- but that’s low on your list of concerns now. You realize you’ve stopped firing, but your efforts are no longer needed, as Rick blazes through the rest of a bar, screaming down at their ruined corpses. 

Breathing hard, he stands straight, looks at you. “Finally. L-let’s go. Let’s grab that case and blow this joint.” 

Prize in hand, weapon slung over your shoulder, you do as he says. It’s a mistake, glancing back at the destruction he’s wrought. 

You resist his pull for a moment. “Wait… what was that? That’s all it took? Space aliens are weak to rap?”

He shrugs. “Nuthin but a G thang… baaaabay!” He breaks into a grin, his hand on your waist. “But, uh, yes they are. These ones, at least. Now come on. We got what we came for.” He opens a portal. “I’m in the mood for karaoke.”


	37. DWC: two Ricks and cup (not what you think)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC - Two Ricks and a cup...but not what you think

You stare across the bar. Well, counter. Intergalactic diners seem to be stuck in the US, in the 1950’s. The waiters wear roller skates, though some of them have four legs, and there is one amorphous floating blob who trails a single skate behind her (it’s a rather feminine blob) by the laces.

The service staff are not the most interesting thing in the place, at least to you. The spectacle that has you captivated is two Ricks, sharing a milkshake. (Strawberry, thank god.) Two red and white striped straws, two heads of messy blue-grey hair. 

Save yours, their lovey-dovey interactions have attracted no other attention. You watch, floored, as they stare each other down, and perhaps ‘sharing’ is not the right word. ‘Competing to drink the most’ might be a better description. 

The way they suck on the straws makes you wonder how enthusiastically they do the same to each other. A shiver of arousal ripples through you, pools deep in your core. It’s so very easy to picture one or the other-- they’re nearly identical-- on his knees, licking and teasing, taking the thick shaft into his mouth, inch by agonizing inch-- 

...Two knowing smirks when they notice you gawking at them. They stand up in sync, and make their way towards you.


	38. DWC: Rick teaches marksmanship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Rick teaching you how to shoot a gun

“Aaaaalright. Here we go. Gotta-- shooting a gun is an important life skill if you’re gonna be running around with me.”

You nod. That’s why you asked him. Plus, you were hoping he would stand behind you, embrace you with his hands on your hands. Help you aim, all intimate and close. The prospect sends a pulse of arousal through you that pools warm and low in your core. You blush and look downrange at the targets. They seem so far away.

He snaps your fingers to get you attention; when you look back at him he belches in your face. “Safety first! Repeat after me. Treat every weapon as if it were loaded.”

You cock your head. “I know how to be safe, Rick.”

“Say it!”

“... treat every weapon as if it were loaded.” It’s hard not to sound sulky.

And all through the rest: keep your finger straight and off the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Keep your weapon on safe until you intend to fire. Never point your weapon at anything you don’t intend to shoot.

“Is that it?” You ask, petulant. “Can I shoot shit yet? Do I have to go through all these rules if there are aliens with guns pointed at me?”

“What? No. Just--” he drinks from his flask, alcohol on the range, definitely a safety violation “--just fucking waste ‘em. L-listen. Listen to me, now, if you don’t listen to anything else I’ve told you. If someone is coming at you, you _destroy that motherfucker._ ” 

He glares at you, saliva coating his lower lip and chin. “Y-you know, don’t wanna get caught with you—eeugh—your pants down in a self defense situation. Or any situation. Except me. I like catching you with your pants down.”

He bestows you with a saucy wink, and then the last safety rule: know your target and what lies beyond. 

Next he indicates the gun he’s provided for you, and you look at it with dismay.

“How come I have to have this little dinky peashooter and you get _that?_ ”

Rick grins. “Do I— am I sensing some kinda penis envy here?” He holds up a hefty revolver; you look at it, then can’t help glancing at his crotch. Definitely not the time for that, and he is too invested in making sure you do this right that he doesn’t let your flirting distract him.

He is an impatient, exacting instructor, quick to criticize. He snaps corrections at you (“You can’t shoot if you’re not relaxed! Stop sucking!”) but takes time to show you the basics. Weapons handling, breathing, shooting positions, sighting in, trigger control.  
It’s all new, but enjoyable, especially his rare, taciturn moments— those mean approval, you’ve finally done something right. 

Except, when it comes time to actually shoot, with hearing and eye protection on, you can barely hit a target. He gets more and more frustrated with you, until you finally ask, “well can I just see you do it? Where did you learn to shoot, anyway?” 

“Good old Uncle Sam.” 

“You were in the military?”

He groans dismissively, no concrete answer. Instead, he takes a stance, makes ready, and fires. Six shots in quick succession. You can see, even from 200 yards, it’s a tight grouping. Rick is an excellent shot. No surprises there. But he had also done something rather strange. 

As he shot he had made _pewpew_ sounds. 

“Rick?” You ask, once he removes his hearing protection. “Did you make _pewpew_ sounds while you were shooting?”

“What? No.” 

“Pretty sure you did.”

“Pretty sure you can suck my dick.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You know I will. _Later_. I’m gonna try it your way, though. With the sound effects.” You pick up his large revolver, not missing the gleam in his eyes. 

“I-i-it’ll have a kick,” he warns you. He comes to stand behind you, make sure you don’t get knocked on your ass. His hands are at your waist, and it’s not as romantic as you expected. If he whispers anything in your ear you won’t be able to hear it, as your earmuffs are back in place. 

You load, make ready, and fire at his command. The recoil makes you rock back. You thump solidly against him— but the sounds helped. You’d heard the metallic _ping!_ — you’d hit the target. He pats your ass, squinting downrange.

“Welllll, you hit it. Barely. High and to the right. Do it again, we’ll make a marksman of you yet.”


	39. DWC: Rick Sanchez, Genius and Lawn Maintenance Enthusiast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: so ‘YOU’RE the douchebag who keeps mowing their lawn while i’m trying to sleep

Every morning you’re woken up, on schedule. Reveille, 0400, except you don’t throw back the covers and leap out of bed, fully dressed. You lie there and fume, entertaining violent fantasies of running over your neighbor with his own stupid riding tractor. That, or tightening your hands around his neck as you ride _him_ , but that’s a fantasy you keep deeply buried.

And besides who even needs a machine like that for a postage stamp of a lot? Why does he wear an American flag-patterned tank top and blare country music? 

But the biggest question of all is why is he out mowing _every single morning?_

You’ve tried earplugs, and a white noise machine, music, sleeping pills, meditation, masturbation (all the M’s). None of them, even in combination, can keep you asleep once you hear that gas engine revving up. You’ve yelled out the window at him, and received a double fisted flip-off. You’ve left passive aggressive letters, reported him to the HOA. All to no avail. 

One Saturday, after it’s been happening for a month, and honestly, any other day would be fine, but Saturday is unacceptable, and besides, you’re still muzzy-headed drunk, having flung yourself into bed only a couple hours earlier--

That engine starts up. You know it well by now, can distinguish it by the first and second putter, then a pop, then a rumble. At this point you’re used to that roaring, non-optional alarm clock, but every time you hear it, your heart drops, because you harbor hope that maybe today will be the exception. The anxiety, too, has become part of your daily life. You put yourself to bed earlier and earlier, and lie awake dreading the unpleasantness of having to wake up well before dawn.

You stare at the ceiling for a good fifteen minutes, plotting unspeakable horrors against the old man from next door. ‘Rick Sanchez, Genius and Lawn Maintenance Enthusiast’ was how he had introduced himself the one time you’d spoken to him directly. (It had not been a productive first meeting, and you had left harboring an unhealthy fascination with your rude, cantankerous neighbor.)

It is your decision to heave yourself out of bed, and to put on sneakers, and to stomp outside to confront him. It is your decision to take the low road, and start an argument rather than a conversation. 

“Hey, asshole!”

He sees you, and turns his music up louder. _‘She thinks my tractor’s sexy~’_

“Turn that off! I do not! What are you— stop it!” 

As you yell at him, he rolls to a stop, cuts the engine but leaves the music going. Then he stands up on the seat and starts thrusting his hips suggestively. Almost like—

Yep, he’s stripping. He hops down and gyrates towards you. You stand stock still, transfixed by this ridiculous display, and within the Rick-induced fog of lust, you think you really shouldn’t be so turned on by a gross old man. 

He grins, seeming to read your inner conflict, and enjoy it. He peels his tank top off and whirls it over his head before letting it go flying off to land on a hedge. 

You swallow thickly, warm despite the chill in the morning air. His body is angular and gaunt, and looks even starker in the light from the street lamps. He dances right up to you and puts his arms around your neck. You have to crane your neck to look him in the eye, he’s so much taller than you. 

His little show was somehow the least cool thing you’ve ever seen, because he wears his pants so high you can see his ankles, but also incredibly sexy.

You don’t tell him any of this. Instead you ask, “why the hell are you mowing your lawn right now?”

“Because it finally got you out here so I can do this.” With that, he lowers his mouth to yours and gives a deep, guttural moan as he kisses you. You rise on your toes, cleaving to his lithe frame. He groans again, feeling your breasts pressing against him through only the thin layer of your sleep shirt. His chin is wet with drool, he tastes of whiskey and cheap beer, which is altogether a terrible combination, but you like it anyway. One of his hands drops to your waist, the other to your ass, which he squeezes. Not very gently, and he swallows the desperate needy sound you make. 

Inside, you have to get inside, his place or yours, or else you’re going to fuck him right here on the grass and—  
the sprinklers come on. You pull away in shock, spluttering and wet. Rick blinks, then shrugs. 

“Welllll shit. Wet t-shirt contest was gonna be my next plan, but, uh, I--euurgh-- I guess we can do it now.”


	40. DWC: Rick did porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: "I heard you did a few pornos back in the day..."

“So, Rick,” you begin coyly, meeting his eyes over the rim of your wineglass before you take a sip. “I heard you did a few pornos back in the day...”

Instead of the chuckle you expected in response-- it’s a joke, after all-- he freezes, a bite of steak halfway to his mouth. “Wha— where did you hear that?” He hisses, leaning across the table, brandishing his utensils. “Who fucking told you, was it-- fuck, was it Jerry? That sneaky little _turd._ ”

“Rick, no! It wasn’t him, I was just making a joke, I didn’t realize you actually… did… porn.” The realization sets in, and you choose to toss back the rest of your wine. “Uh, out of _intense_ curiosity, when exactly did you do it?” Second question, if you make it that far, is how would Jerry, of all people, know about Rick’s lurid work history?

He sits back, face-palming and shaking his head. For a moment, you’re concerned, but then he looks up at you, and his smile is positively indecent.

**  
Rick portals the two of you directly back to his garage workshop after paying the bill in a hurry. “Ahem. Stand-- stand back. Over there.” He opens a secret hatch in the concrete floor, then goes in, motioning for you to follow. You climb down the ladder, which isn’t easy in heels, and he leers up your skirt the whole time. 

“This,” he announces with a note of pride when you have completed your descent, “is the Vault.”

It’s not all videos like you expected. (That, in itself, is a relief.) In fact, the tapes are a minority percentage of the collection. “Is that Walt Disney’s _frozen head?_ ” You ask incredulously. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he snaps. “Come-c’mon.” He leads you to a smaller chamber off the main one. As soon as he flips the lights on, you burst out laughing, and not only because for some reason Marvin Gaye starts playing on the stereo as soon as the lights come on. The decor is the epitome of 70’s sleaze, with avocado-green shag carpeting, wood paneling on the walls, and bizarre phallic sculptures. The piece de resistance is undoubtedly the bed, which is enormous and circular, covered in hideously patterned yellow satin sheets. Mirrors on the ceiling and walls complete the effect.

Giving Rick the perception that you’re laughing at him is always a risky proposition. He shuts down your reaction with a flat glare.

“...sorry,” you apologize quickly, not wanting to jeopardize your chance to view one of his performances.   
“Yeaaaaah that’s what I thought.” Still, he goes to the the TV cabinet (an old wood-paneled set with rabbit-ear antenna) and reads off some of the titles: The Zero-G Spot, Tonguing Black Holes, Assteroid Probes Volume 2: Deep in Uranus. Finally you have to interrupt him, because it’s all too much.

“ _2001: An Ass Odyssey?_ Rick, that’s _atrocious._ ”

He shrugs. “I didn’t make it up.”

You sit on the bed while Rick pops one VHS tape into the tape player, and steel yourself to bite back a lot of giggling. Almost immediately, you have an incident. The footage is grainy, with a ridiculous soundtrack and flimsy plot. There are even title credits, and when the name ‘Dick Manchez’ scrolls up the screen, you look at him expectantly, with something between a smile and a grimace. It is exceedingly difficult not to laugh, especially because the first shot of the film features long range zoom-in to Rick-- no, Dick-- strutting down the street in bell bottom trousers and a hideous orange striped knit poncho. His hair is only slightly less messy than it is currently, and, crucially, he’s sporting a giant bristly porno mustache. 

“ _Yes_ , that was me.” He comes over and sits down next to you on the bed. “Check it-- check me out. This one’s called ‘The Big Wang Theory’. Pre-eeugh--tty proud of that. Came up with it myself, just so you-- in case you had any more _comments_ on that subject.”

You can only shake your head ‘no’, because if you try to say anything, you fear you’ll start laughing and not be able to stop.

Still, the worst is yet to come… Rick’s second appearance onscreen has him walk into frame wearing a scandalously short robe, with no explanation as to when, or why, he changed from his original outfit. 

In stilted porn dialogue he says, ‘Excuuuuuse me ladies, I overheard you discussing the Big Wang Theory, and I’m here to tell you, it’s not theory… it’s FACT!” With that, the Rick in the film flings open his robe to reveal his massive boner and huge bush. (The bush only makes his erect cock look slightly smaller than what you know to be the true size.) 

You manage to contain your laughter to merely a _‘peep!’_. 

One side of Rick’s unibrow goes up in warning. “Y-you got something to say? Anything you wanna get off your chest?”

You shake your head, except then the harem of attractive women in the video crowd around ‘Dick Manchez’ and coo over him, all inane variations of things like:

“Oh, Dick, it’s so… thick.” 

And so you have to ask, “Rick… seriously. Was that bush _real?_ And what’s with the dialogue, how much coke were you all doing?”

He shushes you, redirecting your attention to what he claims is ‘the good part’ (it’s three of the women on their knees tandem-licking his cock, and one of them behind him eating his ass. You retain any and all comments about it being a hairy situation.)

Around the time 70s Porno Rick says, “line up, ladies, I’m gonna tell you alllll about the Spank Constant,” you start to lose it. 

Before all your composure goes out the window, you make a panicked suggestion: “Sooooo… any chance we could do it with this on in the background?”

Rick lets loose a thunderous belch. “Oh, hell yeah. Don’t-- don’t lie, baby, I know you like that stache. Ge--eugh-ts you wet, right? You wanna take a ride? Or how about--” he gets up, climbs onto the bed behind you, “--we can-- I’ll fuck you doggy style so we can both watch. Get your ass up here.”


	41. DWC: car sex is not easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC prompt: “Car sex looks so much more easier in the movies.”

“Okay, just put your leg up--”

“Rick, my joints don’t bend in that direction.”

“Ahhh shit. Ch— just turn over.”

“Oww! Hold on, my seatbelt’s stuck…”

“H-here let me cut it.”

“What? Be careful! You almost got my— _ohh fuck, Rick…_ ”

“Mmm, yeah that’s realll good, baby. Take my dick l-like you got nothin to lose on prom night.”

“... _ohhh_. Oh. Shit my knee, that hurt.”

“Can we _not_ with all the interruptions? Here, ju-eeugh--st get it-- put it up there.”

“I told you I can’t, I’m not as flexible as you. I’m not a Rockette.”

“Hey, you wanted to come to the intergalactic version of Makeout Point.”

“It’s not my fault, I didn’t know it would be like this. I thought… I mean, Your ship looks so much roomier from the outside… you need to vacuum in here. Was this a _banana peel?_ ”

“Will you— _uuhn fuck you’re tight_ — will you stop fucking complaining? Neeeeever had a problem taking th— my fat dick before, you couldn’t stop screaming in that pit stop bathroom on Tblengar-9.”

“... that was a restroom? What… were those not crystals on the walls?”

“Tblengarian shit, baby, worth its weight in...itself, I guess. N-now hold still, we gotta nut before the Federation cops notice a parked ship with fogged windows.”


	42. DWC: reader is a ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: I died and now i’m a motherfucking ghost but instead of being depressed I decide to start haunting people for the hell of it by doing stupid shit like drawing penises on peoples faces while they're asleep and replacing their Oreo cream with toothpaste and you end being the only one that can see me.

You really should be more upset that you died when Rick abandoned you on some distant planet during an intense fight. It was you or him, and (no surprise) he picked himself. Still, there was some level of fury watching him open a portal, twenty feet from you, with aliens advancing, and then seeing him jump through it. Without you. 

Death was quick, not really painless, but quick. You blinked one moment, as a near-corpse, your body a ruined bloody mess. Grotesque creatures crowded around you, stabbing and cutting, stealing your life away and you died looking up at thousands of glassy bug eyes.

When you blinked again, you floated. 

Ethereal suits you. It makes everything easier, and lighter. Consequence is fleeting. You don’t have to eat, or sleep. You can’t be hurt. You were not a vengeful person. And thus, you are not a vengeful spirit. You delight in the possibility that you _could_ be. You have that power, could appear before some living, blood-pumping entity with a grim visage and scare the shit out of them. But you won’t. 

Mostly, you wonder what happened to Rick. You understand why he left, and why he left you. You consider whether you would have done the same, in his position. But that takes too much thought, contemplating what he really meant to you. Immortal, now, you have plenty of time to ponder it. You’ll get to it later.

Eventually, still with no answer, you seek him out. You drift, you don’t know how long. You come to the Smiths’ house, pass through the garage door,, then through the wall into the kitchen. 

You glimpse Rick staring at the open fridge, he looks about the same. He slouches, his back hunched. He already knows he’s going to take a beer, but he thinks about it. 

You follow him into the dining room, where Jerry is sitting at the table. You wonder if perhaps Rick can’t see you-- if no one can see you. The thought is a disturbing one, and if you still had blood it might run cold. You’d encountered no resistance, no acknowledgement in your long journey back to Earth. Rick is immersed in something on his phone.

You hover behind him. He sits down, still doesn’t notice you when you go over to Jerry. 

For his part, Jerry stares straight through you, and when you float through him he shivers. Otherwise, nothing.  
Frustrated, you put your fist through his chest several times, but he just rubs at it and mumbles something about heartburn.

You can’t speak, not really. But you can make things echo spookily through the spirit realm, which is why, when you shout, ‘Jerry you’re a loser!’ He only hears the last word, as a malevolent whisper carried on the wind.

_“Loooserrrr…”_ You do it again and Jerry looks up from his bubble popping tablet game.

“Huh? Who said that?” He peers at his father-in-law suspiciously. “Rick, was that you?”

Rick finally tears his attention away from his phone, ready with a caustic insult, but his face goes slack. 

You wave at Rick over Jerry’s shoulder, and to your joy, and relief, Rick limply waves back. 

At last, you have an audience, and lucky for your spectral self, it’s the one person who would get a kick out of stupid, immature pranks.

Jerry whips around, confusion mutating quickly to misdirected anger. “Rick, cut it out!”

_“Jerry Smith is a worthless dickbag!”_ You shout. _“Hungry for assholes?”_

“OKAY!” Jerry stands up, his chair topples over, right through your legs. “I don’t know how you’re doing that, or who you were waving at, and I know you think you’re soooooo clever, but I am putting my foot down. This is my house, and I will NOT allow this kind of disrespe--”

You choose your moment, reach through Jerry’s abdomen, and swipe his tablet off the table. It shatters on the floor, pieces of the glass screen go everywhere. He shrieks, but you care less about that and more about the smile that lights Rick’s face. 

From then on you make Jerry’s life miserable, to Rick’s continued delight. Petty mischief, mostly, and somehow Jerry manages to blame every person in the house without ever suspecting the truth. You tie shoelaces together, shake Jerry’s unopened soda cans, add depilatory cream to his body wash (Beth: “Jerry, why did you think shaving your buttcrack would make me want to have sex with you?”) 

Once, you inscribe a creepy, vaguely threatening message in the steam on the bathroom mirror, prompting Jerry to believe he is being stalked by a serial killer named ‘Clown Penis’.

Other than the stupid shit you do to haunt Jerry, Rick pays you little attention. At first, when you took up spectral residence in his garage workshop, he tried to shoo you away. Tried to ghost-bust you away too, with various contraptions. Nothing worked, although one device, basically a leafblower, imparted a rather pleasant tingling sensation. He describes what he’s tinkering with each time, explains the science of what he’s doing to get rid of you.

You listen for a while. Weeks. Months. Eventually he moves on to other projects, and you stay. He likes talking aloud, likes having a rapt, adoring audience who never contradicts him. One evening you glide closer to him, much closer than you normally get. Being a ghost makes it much easier to be part of the intimate, quiet parts of his life, whether he wants you there or not. You’re unobtrusive. 

_“Rick.”_ You say it at a normal volume for yourself. He doesn’t look up. You’ve had plenty of time to think about what you would have done in his position, and you have no answers. You haven’t even tried to touch him yet in this form, you don’t know why.

So you trail cold fingers along the side of his neck. He jerks in surprise. He wasn’t particularly warm, from what you remember, back when you could touch him flesh on flesh. Now his skin holds heat, so much of it, and the contrast gives you your own shock: you suddenly understand the white frozen nothingness of your being. How horrible it must feel for Jerry when you stick your hand in his head and make the ‘L’ hand sign just to make Rick laugh. 

Worth it.

Rick tries to grab at you but his hands close on translucent wisps. You touch him again and he swears, snarling at you and waving his hands as if he could disperse you like fog. You lean in and lick his cheek. Strange. You can almost taste something, the faint essence of salt and fresh soap. 

Finally he sighs and sits back, resigned. He takes his flask from within his lab coat, takes a long pull, then stands up. “Alright, fine. I’m-- I can see there’s no getting rid of you. So with that in mind the-eeurgh-re are some things I want to try.” He starts unbuckling his belt. “Gonna have you start with those ghost hands of yours, then we’ll move on to ghost mouth and ghost puss.” 

You smile at him and he grins back, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Another experience for him to cross off his list. 

“Th-this should be-- it’ll be interesting. Not that _I_ ever had any regrets about it, but aren’t you glad I left you to die?”


	43. DWC: “Please, let me taste you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: “Please, let me taste you.”
> 
> warnings: implied character death, suicide

Age comes on so suddenly for Rick. He tries to pass it off as overexertion, an extended hangover, but within a week he has a fall in the bathroom. His hip fractures in two places and he is unbearably caustic throughout his surgery and recovery, since he can’t do any of it himself. The day Morty leaves for college, Rick is still bedridden in a cast, and sneers something about ‘backup school’ and ‘waste of time and money’. 

Morty puts the gift he brought, a wrapped and bowed bottle, on the nightstand by his grandfather’s bedside, and that winter, spends his first Christmas away from home. 

Within three months Rick is barely recognizable as the ass-kicking, dimension-hopping grouch you’d known. His energy is gone, though his mind is still sharp. It’s disconcerting, and heartbreaking. Sure, he’s old, but he’s never been old. He’s never shown it.

His eyes are cloudy now, his vision going. 

“Please, let me taste you.” He is plaintive, and the emotion sounds unnatural from him.

“What?” You’re sitting at his bedside now-- his old cot which he modified to be adjustable, before his hands started shaking too much to hold tools.

He is feeble, his voice reedy. He can’t walk far anymore without assistance, though he’s managed to sustain himself with cybernetic body modifications and clever inventions. But at a certain point he just… gave up. Too much maintenance. “I-I-I want-- lemme taste your cunt.” _One more time_ , is the unspoken part of that.

“Rick, you can barely move.” The days when he could toss you around and overpower you are long gone. When he realized his body was failing him, he’d tried to shoo you away, annoy you away, and finally frighten you away, brandishing a gun in your face. 

“Why the fuck are you still here?” He had shouted, pressing the barrel to your forehead. “I-I-I-I’m not-- I can’t take you places anymore. My dick’s out of batteries. Basically.”

You had no answer. You kept coming over to visit anyway. He drools more now, and drinks less. As far as you know, you’re the only one who provides him alcohol. Beth and Jerry saw it as an opportunity to finally impose order, and health. Rick was miserable without it. 

You keep him company most days, quiet, reading while he sleeps, or else watching re-runs of Ball Fondlers. Though recently, How They Do It seems to be his favorite. 

Now he gets up, a slow and laborious ordeal. His joints pop and he grumbles at you to switch places. You obey, sliding your panties off beneath your skirt, and sitting on the edge of his bed. It’s been months since you’d done anything so intimate as kissing him, which he never particularly liked anyway. 

He kneels in front you. He pushes your legs apart, impatient as ever, but without the strength to back it up. You let him lead, biting your lip in anticipation, your desire somewhat diminished by worrying he’s going to tire himself out.  
His hands are still elegant; his long spindly fingers trail up your thighs, drawing the hem of the skirt along too. He presses a kiss to the soft, smooth flesh, and his stubble is scratchy. He hardly ever bothers to shave anymore unless you help him, and you don’t have time every day.

You settle back on your elbows, halfway propped up by a pillow, and watch him there between your legs. He has more liver spots than you remember. His skin hangs looser, his hair is thinner, and wispy.

He takes his time in a manner you’ve never experienced with him before. There had been plenty of instances, when he was healthy, where he teased you, for hours on end. Entertained himself with a sort of perverse glee at controlling your pleasure absolutely. 

He spreads the lips of your cunt, gives one long, slow lick. Your head falls back, you give a helpless whimper. 

“ _Rick..._ ” So long. It’s been so long, and you need him and you know he’s going to take himself away soon, one way or another. 

He’s told you he had planned to slip away to die, like a sick animal. He would have flown off in his garbage ship, or portaled himself somewhere desolate. Smashed his portal gun, and then he’d _really_ have to go through with it. He seemed to want you to ask why he anticipated going all that way, if he was only going to hesitate at the last minute. 

He licks again, his eyes are closed. You tangle your fingers in his hair, hesitating to be so bold at first but he makes a sound akin to a purr and flicks his tongue over your clit. You pull his hair, rolling your hips to his mouth. He moans into your cunt, murmurs against your skin, you’re _sweet and wet and perfect._ He slips one finger in, and a moment later a second. Curls them, pressing that spot inside you that makes you ache with desire. 

You repeat his name and he raises his head. His name. He grins at hearing it, and your heart clenches. You can’t remember the last time he smiled like that. 

“Please, Rick.” You beg him. 

“Always such a needy little slut,” he shakes his head, amused and he’s almost himself again. “Always so eager for me.” His voice is low and affectionate, though before you can think about it too much, he kisses your clit. You whimper, and clutch at his free arm, which is extended up along your side. 

He chuckles, like he knows he’s still got it. Oh, yes, he can still make you fall apart, can still reduce you to pleading for the privilege of doing whatever he commands. 

And yet, he is desperate. He betrays urgency even as he luxuriates in the taste and warmth and slickness of your cunt. 

He laps at your clit, with his fingers inside you, beckoning you to submit. Everything, he asks. Give him everything of yourself, as if you haven’t already. As if you could hold something back from him.

His hand at your side is an anchor, his fingers dig into your flesh and he clings to you. You begin to crest, gradually, reaching for release, hands grasping at the coarse woolen blanket he won’t get rid of. 

Through your haze of lust, you hear yourself cry out, and he chooses that moment to suck on your clit, a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. His name rips from your throat in a wanton moan. Savage, consuming pleasure washes over you and your cunt spasms around his fingers. Would be fleeting but Rick draws it out, expert and imperious in his control over you. As always.

You come down gently, he withdraws his fingers and sits back on his heels. His shoulders are too skinny, and he slouches, grimacing. “Y-you-- don’t just lie there, I need to-- help me stand up. That fucked up my knees, you took so damn long.”

You keep your expression carefully neutral, nod, and assist him. He’s still much taller than you. He shuffles to his nightstand, opens it, and takes his portal gun. 

The sight of it makes you wistful; you give him a little smile, which he doesn’t return. “Going somewhere?” You joke.

He frowns. His unibrow is the one bit of hair that has survived (and thrived). “Come-- c’mere.” 

“I thought you didn’t have any portal gun fluid left.” You look up, meeting his eyes. A sudden dread seizes you. He kisses your forehead, then takes a step back. You know better than to try to stop him, and instead grab a mostly full bottle of scotch from beside his cot and hold it out. 

He accepts it, opens a portal beneath his feet, and disappears.


	44. DWC: food sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Fun in front of the fridge: Food sex.

Preparing meals with Rick around (ostensibly to ‘help’) goes a little something like this: 

“Rick, no.” 

“Rick, put that down.” 

“DON’T put your fingers in that.” 

“That’s going in a salad, not in my butt.” 

“It’s not going in _your_ butt either.”

“Wh-what did you say these are, again?” He holds up tongs. “Mind repeating what you wanted me to do with them?”

You sigh, gathering as much patience as possible. “Those are salad tongs, Rick. And you know what I told you, I’m not saying it again.”

He raises his unibrow at you suggestively.

“Keep your pants ON--” nope, too late.

“Eh-what? How are we supposed to make-- to to-eeugh-ss the salad otherwise?”

You make an exasperated noise and brush past him, because when has ignoring him ever worked?

Soon, his patience runs out, around the time you put the roast in the oven. “Y-you—put that down. Get over here.”

You recognize the lust in his voice, the tone that tells you it’s better not to argue, although he’d be amused if you tried. You remove your apron and clothes even as you drop to your knees in front of him. You look up at him expectantly, eyes wide and deceptively innocent.

“Mmm, _good girl._ ” He sucks his drool-shiny lower lip into his mouth, making a rather crude sound. You lick your lips, and he has no right, really, no right to stoke your desire so quickly. So little effort on his part, and your mouth waters, looking at the bulge of his hard cock contained in his underwear. The whole thick length lies sideways, across to his left hip, straining the fabric. 

“Y-you want this?” He grasps his cock so you can better see the outline, and you nod, too eager. He drinks from an open bottle of cooking sherry on the counter, belches. “Toooooo fucking bad, baby. This is your show and you said we-- I gotta toss the salad first.”

That’s your cue to turn around, stick your ass in the air, and your face flat on the tile floor. It’s all rather humiliating, and Rick knows, and doesn’t care. He settles behind you, smacks one cheek, then the other. The first one stings, makes you jump, and the second is, if anything, harder. 

“Go-- go on, baby, ass up, a little higher. An old man like me doesn’t want to bend over that far.” His hands grip the soft swell of your hips, his thumbs spread you apart. You keep still, though it’s an effort not to squirm as the cool air touches your most intimate areas. “You’re blushing,” he observes casually. “Embarrassed?”

“You’re staring at my butthole like you’re making field observations!” That comes out a little whinier than you meant it to, but he did choose his moment to blow a puff of air on your cunt, and the gathering wetness makes it over-sensitive.

“I’ve been balls deep in your ass, a-are you-- did that slip your mind? Or how about that time on the Citadel when you took that aphrodisiac and you bent and spread and begged me to fuck you in front of the Council? Wasn’t that--” he lowers his mouth and licks in one long movement up your slit, then swirls his tongue over the tight pucker of muscle “-- _wasn’t it fun?_ ” His voice goes hoarse and low.

At your admission that it was, he rewards you, lavishing you with attention. He licks your pussy again, flicking his tongue on your clit before lapping up the moisture of your arousal. He gets his face all up in it, his complete lack of shame a potent contrast to your humiliation. The sounds he makes are obscene, little hums and grunts and he really shouldn’t _like this so much_ , but then again, he’s always had a talent for being as nasty and shocking as possible. When he moves higher, licking slow and flat over your asshole, you try to cringe away. It’s too sensitive, and you feel shamefully exposed. 

He forces you back down impatiently, with a hand at the middle of your back, then buries his face again. All the saliva slicking his lower lip and chin make everything wetter, and in between slurping he groans. Can’t get enough, devouring you with single-minded lust, the same way you swallow his cock and slobber on his balls. 

“Oh god, _Rick_ …” the moment you reveal your need, rocking back onto his face, he pulls away. You whine with need, pouting at him as he comes around in front of you. 

“Y-y-you know there’s-- there are still things we haven’t tried, baby.” Somehow he’s acquired a whole cucumber, which he holds up with a horrible grin. “You think I won’t make you fuck your ass with a-a-- with this monstrosity while you choke my dick? Think again, slut.”


	45. DWC: Rick's handwriting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC “one prompt for all”: Rick’s handwriting, or a handwritten note from Rick

You trace your fingers over the curves and dips of each letter, internalizing their anatomy. This is art, to you. This is how you know you’re a little hopeless when it comes to Rick Sanchez. 

The descenders of his ‘y’s go straight down. Same with the word-final ‘g’, he makes a little loop and hurries to the next word. The ‘i’s get perfunctory dots, which run to dashes, sometimes the crossbars on the ‘t’. ‘And’ becomes a scribbled ampersand. Most of the letters are unfussy, linear. The spine of the ‘s’ is an exception, an intriguing curve. It’s the most flagrant indulgence other than his capital ‘R’, which is, naturally, the most prominent character. 

Overall, the effect is that of slapdash cursive. As if he learned it, then took the parts he wanted to make handwriting more efficient. He creates ligatures where there should be none. Slurs the characters the way he slurs when he’s drunk and tired and groping at you. 

You peer closer, close enough to see how the ink soaked into the weft of the paper and you imagine the way he held the pen, his fingers scrunched around the barrel. His hands are too big, his fingers too long for it to be comfortable. You’ve thought about buying him an ergonomic pen but he would lose it. 

You read the note one more time before folding it up and tucking it in that one pocket of your purse where you stash treasures. It will stay there for years, probably, until you dump it out looking for your keys or chapstick. You’ll find it again. 

It’s a scrap of lined paper, torn at the edges: _Stop whatever bullshit busywork you’re doing and come suck my dick. -R_


	46. Flesh Curtains Rick x male reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: I've had this idea floating around for a while and would love to see what you do with it...Flesh Curtains Rick getting in a nasty bar fight with someone who won't stop hitting on Reader, kinky sex in the ally behind the bar afterwards follows...
> 
> FC Rick x male reader
> 
> warnings: blood, violence, angst, anal sex

Rick swings first. His fist connects with the hulking alien’s... jaw? forehead?-- hard to say-- and you wolf whistle. Then you have to hop off your bar stool, grab your drink as you back up to give them space.

You know Rick well enough to know he doesn’t really _care_ that someone else was hitting on you. Doesn’t care enough to start a loud messy fight about it, anyway. The fight is peripheral, an outlet for the potent post-show miasma of adrenaline and drugs. He needs the excuse to be uncaged and when spontaneous opportunities run dry, he drums them up for himself. 

Your whistle distracts Rick. He grins and winks at you (ignore that little flutter in your chest, because a disaster of a person like him has no _right_ , really). That bit of charm is a stupid indulgence. The other guy, a bristling, orange-faced fellow, takes advantage of his lapse in attention and throws a haymaker that catches Rick in the soft part of his cheek. The sound as it lands is a grotesque, wet crunching; Rick’s head snaps around and he reels from the force of it, skidding in crushed the peanut shells on the floor.

You wince, steady yourself with a sip of your vodka tonic. Aside, you order two tequila doubles from the unconcerned bartender-- for Rick, whenever he’s done and needs another flimsy reason to pour liquor in himself. 

Rick recovers, wiping his mouth; his forearm comes away bloody. “Y-y-you think you can-- you wanna come in here, try to chat up _my_ boyfriend?”

You bite your lip, trying not to snicker. That’s a _little_ rich, given that he often refers to you as his fucktoy, and more privately, fuckboy. You’re not dating; that’s a conversation neither of you will approach. He says how he met you doesn’t matter. It’s a cute story, but he refuses to rehash it, saying he’s met ten, no fifty, no— a hundred guys just like you. Not that Rick doesn’t get jealous and possessive, but he chooses the strangest issues. He’s the best, so why would you ever stray from him? 

And besides, you aren’t entirely convinced that he is secure in his perception of his hold on you. The way he sucks your cock primarily comes to mind, like he’s aiming to make you forget that anyone else in the universe exists, except for him. Usually he succeeds, and when he drops you back off on earth, ditches you for another few months to go touring, he’s the only one you can ever picture. When you take yourself in your hand, needing only the most perfunctory release, it’s easiest to think of him. 

Rick is swaying now, his wild, already-greying hair matted down from sweat. His loose tank top bares more than it covers. The whole getup is absurd, especially considering that out of the three members of the Flesh Curtains, it’s Rick who wears the most clothes. So of course he chooses a shirt that flashes his nipples, and pants that show off his lean frame and the bulge of his enormous cock. And the collar with the ring on it, as if he’s hoping someone might slip a line in there and lead him around-- though everything you know of him tells you he wouldn’t follow commands well.

You eye him up shamelessly, appreciating his long limbs, the corded muscle of his arms, his hands. You have the pleasure of watching them play bass during the Flesh Curtains’ shows, and later feeling them, calloused and bony and dextrous. Your balls tighten, thinking about the way he smirks when he bends you over, one hand splayed on the small of your back, the other pumping your cock as he strokes into you. Rick’s control over you is a stark contrast to, evidently, his near complete lack of it over his own impulses. 

He weaves drunkenly, dodging one blow only to run smack into the next one. His nose is bloody, doesn’t look broken yet. His lip is split, his left eye is starting to swell, and his right ear is mangled. This barroom brawl did not start out gracefully and only gets nastier when Rick takes a quick break to snort k-lax, and the alien downs a couple of unidentifiable seed pods that make him jittery. 

Rick’s drug of choice gives him an edge, imbues a kind of glee to his reckless violence. He slugs the other guy, yelling something over the ambient din of the bar about how he had better keep his six wiggly alien dicks in his pants. The opponent hits him right back, a punch to the gut. Rick barely flinches, just rolls with it and comes back with a knee to his six-dicked groin. 

At last the scuffle gets broken up when the broken beer bottles come out. Relieved, you bring the drinks over, and nod to Bird Person and Squanchy, who returned from breaking down the stage just in time to restrain their fellow bandmate. He’s woozy, punch-drunk and belligerent, and snatches the glasses from you.

“Took you long enough,” he snaps, tossing one back. He belches, a mix of saliva and blood dribbles down his chin, and lord help you but you want to lick it off. These fights are not an unfamiliar experience. There is a routine to them, and after getting bruised and red and high, he’ll want to fuck you. 

_“You always like this after a beating?” You’d asked him with a breathless laugh as he slicked himself with lube behind you. This was the second or third time. You hadn’t known yet that he hated, absolutely loathed questions like that. Introspection was foreign to him, though that shouldn’t be surprising in a man whose band had a hit song called ‘My Name is Pussy Destroyer’, and who regularly destroyed their instruments at the end of a show._

_Rick had grunted, lined his cock up with your ass, penetrated the tight ring of muscle. You had moaned at the exquisite sting, the pain as he pushed in, his girth overstretching you. He had held your jaw in his hands, both of you on your knees. Your head and neck and back forced into an elegant arch. “You-- are you always gonna take my cock like a little bitch? I-I-I fucking hope so, you do it so well. M-my— you can be my fuckboy, let me use your ass whenever I feel like it.”_

_At that you hadn’t been able to repress a helpless ‘please’, and his name; your cock had twitched and you rocked back onto him._

“I’ve got this,” you reassure Rick’s friends. 

Bird Person nods solemnly. Squanchy is already fashioning a length of rope into some sort of collar or noose. They are happy to let him be someone else’s problem for a night. Rick takes the second drink, downs it in a couple gulps, swearing at the sting of the alcohol, which seeps into the cut on his lip. You watch some of the liquor mingle with gore and drool and dribble down his chin; he’ll use that soon to wet his fingers and prepare you, and you feel your cock stir in anticipation.

_And so it goes, on nights after the shows and brawls, Rick and you, adrenaline and euphoria, and you as his willing vessel._

_Rarely, it’s the other way around. Letting you fuck him would be a misleading way to say it. He takes your dick up his ass, only when he’s in good enough shape, and you must be tied spreadeagle on the bed. He’ll put a cockring on you and ride you, pulling on his cock in long, full strokes as he does. Biting his lip, eyes hooded, and the sounds from his trembling throat, quiet desperate whimpers that you’re not supposed to hear-- those make you fall apart._

Tonight is not one of those times. Rick’s blood is up; it makes him mean and uncompromising. He staggers to his feet shortly after his bandmates leave. “Co-eeeugh—me— come on. With me. We’re going.”

You don’t move. “I’m not done with my drink, Rick.”

He scowls, picks it up, and finishes it. “Now you are. I’m having-- I have something I need to tell you about.”

This promise, dangled in front of you, is tempting. In all the time you’ve known him, he’s refused to reveal anything real about where or who he was before he hopped on the neverending carousel/intergalactic fuckfest that characterizes his life. 

_“M-my-my parents, they left m-- put me on a railway car, abandoned me. Grew up a grimy little hobo.”_

_“And now you’re a big grimy hobo.” (One raised side of his unibrow signals ‘careful’.)_

_Or else: “Traveling circus. I was a sideshow freak, and I’m-- I know that’s insensitive, but…”_

_“You were one of the attractions?” Dare you inquire as to his specialty?_

_He grins, reads your morbid curiosity. He wanted you to ask. He rocks his hips, grinding his cock against your ass for emphasis. Reaches around and fondles your balls, rolls them in his hand. His mouth is wet on your neck and you smell tequila on his breath and he has this way of making you conveniently forget everything when he anoints you with his attention._

There is a kernel of truth at the center of every good lie, however, and Rick is an excellent bullshitter. 

_“Spent e--eeugh-every summer in Oaxaca, my Abuela made--” he cuts himself short with a cough and you have to wonder, was he about to reveal something too personal? Something real?_

Which parts are true? 

He drags you outside, leaving the bar through a side door. The air outside is cool and refreshing and you inhale deeply. It’s never easy to see him like this. Rick looks frightful, the purpling bruises are a menacing sight. He grimaces, hawks, then spits blood onto the grimy pavement.

“What I’m about to tell you, it’s-- y-you can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret! Me and Pers and Squanchy are planning so--eeugh--mething. Something big.” He touches his fingers to his swelling eye, palpating the skin. You catch his wrist to stop him. He’s going to make it worse. 

“I won’t tell a soul.”

He rolls his eyes, probably at the word ‘soul’, and wrenches away from your grasp. 

You want to embrace him. You watch his face, his sharp jaw and high cheekbones, and his overlong nose. He’s handsome now, he’ll be gaunt when he’s older. He’s already jaded. 

A matching set of ego and intellect do him no favors, make him reckless and cocky and, though you suspect this must all be some sort of horrible cosmic joke, you adore him for it. You tell yourself it won’t last. Rick wants to drink and fight and fuck, and for now your interests align. But he is falling. You can see it, week after week, into months, almost a year. He’s picked the deepest, darkest hole he could find and thrown himself down it. You have to acknowledge that, otherwise you’d be tempted to jump in after him, thinking it would help.

“We’re…” he looks around, leans closer and you realize he’s backed you against the brick wall. He is on the verge of something, though why tonight you have no idea. Scrutinizing him, understanding him beyond his wildness, is futile. You meet his eyes and he tilts his head, calculating, and you’re reminded of his unchecked brilliance, and the ease with which he dismantles you and remakes you. 

He bends and only kisses you, as if it’s his last chance to do it. His lips are wet, you taste the copper and iron mingling with tequila on his breath. His tongue dips into your mouth, he swallows your moan, and the low thrum of arousal that has plagued you all evening roars in your ears. 

He wants you, and your body responds. There are no half measures with Rick Sanchez, and no matter how much of yourself you keep in reserve, he roots it out. What he needs becomes what you need, and if it’s knock-down drag-out savage fucking in an alley behind a bar, well then-- 

He cleaves his body to yours, pinning you to the wall. His hand goes to your jaw and he kisses you harder. More blood. His mouth is swollen, the alcohol and wounds make him clumsy. You still love it, matching his fervor, biting at the cut on his lip, which makes him grunt; he grinds his clothed erection against yours. 

When he breaks away, you ask, breathless, “what exactly do you like so much about getting the shit kicked out of you?”

Rick sneers. “Pretty sure I won that fight. Now get-- turn around, fuckboy, you’re gonna give me that ass, come on--” his patience runs short, he’s pulling at the waistband of your jeans even before he shoves your face against the bricks. You fumble with your belt and fly, and hear the clink and zip from Rick behind you as well. He yanks your clothing down just enough for access, nothing is ever fast enough for him-- then you feel the hot, silky skin of his cock against your ass. 

You buck your hips back to his, need more contact, and will there ever be a time you don’t _beg_ for this? He spits, three times, his saliva hits your ass and dribbles down. Then he’s rubbing the head of his cock in it, and in the cleft of your ass, at the tight puckered opening. Over your shoulder you can see him, he sucks two fingers in his mouth. Preparing you like this is restrained for him. His sclera are still cotton candy blue. 

High and drunk and he still takes the slightest bit of care, fucking you open with his fingers before he forgets himself again. 

Your own cock is achingly hard, and you take it in your hand, fingers squeezing in a ring around the base and your balls as Rick pushes in. 

“Thee-eeurgh--eere you go. That’s good. Y-you’re hard for me, nnnnff you’re so fucking hot…” he trails off, rocking into you with short strokes, he’s too big for anything else at first. He replaces your hand with his own, working your length more roughly. 

Your palms are not quite flat against the wall, the harsh texture of the bricks chafes your skin. “Yessss, Rick…” you never know what to say to him. All you have are questions he doesn’t want to answer.

He tells you he likes the sounds you make, that if you do it louder he’ll fuck you harder. You subdue your willfulness, and let yourself groan when he angles his hips and hits your prostate. 

He echoes you, and rewards you with a faster pace, his hand pumping at just the right rhythm. “You-- ffffuck. Take my cock, _slut._ ” 

He takes you apart with that word; you give a helpless whimper and he goads you. “Yeeahhhh, you like that, you like being called slut. C-can’t-- can’t stop whining for my dick in your ass.” he pushes in deeper, stretching further, emphasizing how effortlessly he controls you and _oh_ \--

“ _Rick._ ” He makes you weak. Feel his balls against your ass, and then not quite because he pulls out and slams in again and everything tightens at once— his grip on your cock, your balls, the perfect maddening tension of over-stimulation. 

He hears the need in the incoherent cry that claws from your throat, then wrenches your neck so he can press his mouth to yours as he reams you. Beneath the veneer of swagger and showmanship, he’s a little lost-- you might taste it in the kiss, which is searching and desperate— but then you begin to crest, reveling in the heady blend of blood and liquor on his bruised lips. He fucks into you, brutal, untethered. 

He’s going to break you and leave you. 

The tenderness of the kiss ends, he growls again, “you like being my little fuckboy, my little _slut_. Keep coming with me, you jump up a-and ditch whatever you’re doing to take th-this— to take my fat dick however I tell you.” 

And you will. You will follow him for answers, if he allows it. 

He bites your neck when his strokes grow slick and uneven, his balls slap against your flesh and his thick length splits you open. Your cock pulses at his touch; you cum and it’s all careless and raw, spilling your essence on his hand, on the wall, on the ground. You keen at the searing pleasure, burl your hands to fists and gasp how big he feels in you, how good, and please, Rick, _please_...

He groans his release, breathes in relief against your neck. Too intimate, and the two of you stand there coupled for a moment. Rick is panting hard when he pulls out. You hitch your jeans back up, tuck yourself away, and turn to see him fail at the same. He stumbles and falls, landing hard on the pavement. His head bounces with a sickening _thunk._

“Shit.” You crouch next to him, turning him on his back, with his head to the side. There’s a new gash on his forehead, with grit mingling in the bright welling crimson. You mutter, swearing to yourself. You don’t know which wrong thing to try to fix first, and Rick has a talent for making a complete mess of himself. His flaccid cock is still out, which strikes you as absurd and sad (have you ever seen him all the way soft?)

So you make him decent, doing up his trousers and struggling a bit with the ridiculous skull belt buckle. He moans but doesn’t have the strength to push you away. You pat his face, pry one eye open, then the other. The k-lax is waning, at least, but he might be concussed. 

“Rick?”

(Belch.)

“Rick.”

“Hmm? Wh-what do you want?” 

_Nothing. To stay with him until the morning comes, for once._ He looks pretty far gone. Make something up, you were just getting his attention to make sure he won’t pass out. He hates being worried over. ”What is it that draws you to the void spaces of the universe?” There. That should keep him awake, and if you’re lucky, get him rambling about science or seeking out new musical influences. 

“I keep on wondering…” His eyes slip closed. 

“Yeah, me too, asshole.” You tamp down annoyance, and panic.

He doesn’t stop you when you take his portal gun from the inside pocket of his vest. You get him, and yourself, back to his apartment by opening a portal right on the ground. You fall through with him and land, somehow, upright. Rick ragdolls to the floor. _What’s one more injury?_ Your hazy-drunk brain asks, but it hurts to watch his head careen off the sharp edge of the counter.

You clean the lacerations with the remnants of a handle of vodka you find in his closet, and heave him into bed at last. 

To sit and follow the rise and fall of his narrow chest is mesmerizing, once you’ve installed yourself at his bedside. The stark painful lines of his ribs, and how his clothing drapes over him like a shroud that hardly covers anything. His skin has a pallor that invites you to imagine translucence. Could you see through it, would he be the same as everyone else? Under the flesh, to muscle, bone, and viscera. If you cut him open, would you find the conclusions to every unfinished thing he’s spoken to you? 

He wakes, briefly, when you’re starting to doze in your chair. 

“S-sweetie?” He mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

You startle, blinking, unaware of how much time has passed. Now the small bedroom is cast in greyscale, the effect of late-night early-morning, and not knowing where one ends and the other begins. He’s done little to make the space reflect himself. A few band posters, scientific diagrams. What little light there is floats and ripples, as if suspended in water. You’ve been in here once or twice before, but even the times he’s brought you here, a tour wasn’t the purpose of the visit.

“Sweetie…?”

He’s never called you that. “Ahem… uh… yeah?” Chalk it up to hangover, and he must be disoriented from getting knocked around.

“It’s not—i-i-it wasn’t my choice to leave. I couldn’t _not_ go. But I couldn’t take you.” 

You hush him. The shimmer of honesty catches your heart and makes you think he’s saying this for someone else. You shouldn’t hear it. You nearly get up to sleep on the couch, but the discordance of his voice entrances you. 

“Next time, I’m-- when we go, me and Pers and Squanchy, what we’re planning, it’s gonna be really something. Y-y-you should—“

_Steel your nerve for disappointment._ “Hmm?” 

“Come with me.”


	47. Reader has anxiety (again)

You know the symptoms at the onset. Chest tightening. Can’t focus on anything for more than a minute, and it seems like every moment something or someone pulls your attention. Then you have to start over, and every little thing takes gargantuan energy to accomplish. 

Being aware that it’s happening makes it worse. You can’t stop it. Can’t soothe yourself. You realize you’re clenching your jaw and consciously make yourself stop, only to get distracted, stressed, and remind yourself to stop again a moment later. You fidget, your entire body feels like it’s shaking. You can’t draw a full breath.

So you leave. “Early lunch break,” you explain to your boss as she walks past your desk and sees you putting on your coat. “Forgot to eat breakfast.” You give a shrill, awkward laugh to cover the fact that you’re close to snapping at her and/or bursting into tears.

Her response is nonchalant, she asks you if you’re picking anything up or if you brought your own. Kindness directed at you is, in its own way, overwhelming.

“Treating myself,” you hear yourself say. “That sandwich place in Town and Country.”

“Oh, you _have_ to try the cajun turkey sub!” She wants to have a whole conversation about sandwiches, which you tolerate, and finally escape with the excuse that you want to beat the lunch rush.

Instead, you drive home. You expect you’ll take a long shower, change into pajamas, have a cup of tea, a restless nap. The normal things that help walk you back from times like this.

When you let yourself in the front door, you hear the TV. Must be Rick. He has permission to come over to your place when you’re not around, a privilege he claimed by just doing it enough times. So it’s not a surprise to see him occupying most of your couch, shirtless, with a beer. 

He belches in greeting and turns back to the Ball Fondlers marathon. You come over and sit down next to him. He scratches his stomach, then his balls, then puts that same hand on your thigh.

“Ha-eeugh-alf day?”

You’re silent for a moment, wondering what to tell him, and how, before the tears come. Fat and wet and embarrassing. Your chest heaves as you sob, and you bury your face in your arms, doubling over.

You can’t see Rick’s face, but can imagine his disdainful expression, ready with some insult, or perhaps a point-and-laugh. 

Except then you feel his long arms around you, pulling you up, drawing you to his chest. Cuddling with him is so rare, and not the most comforting. He is rawboned, and chilly. He’s never shown concern like this before, and it makes you a bit uneasy, but you assent. Part of his attention is still on the TV program. That’s reassuring. He tucks your head under his chin, strokes your hair.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, after a minute.

“What?” You mumble. “Rick, I really don’t feel like—“

He grumbles in annoyance. “Just— don’t argue. Take your shirt off, trust me.”

You nod, sit up enough to pull it up and over by the hem.

“Bra too. Take that— get it off.” 

You unhook it one-handed behind your back. It takes a little twist, which Rick has never mastered, to his great frustration. 

He produces an unlabeled pot of ointment, and makes you rearrange yourself so you’re sitting between his legs, with your back against his. He takes a gob of it on two long fingers and starts massaging it onto your sternum. Up to your collarbones, out to your shoulders, down between the swell of your breasts. Large, deliberate circles that slow your breathing, make you sigh. Each exhale steadier than the last until your trembling ceases. You are safe, you are safe. He is here. 

Rick’s low, gruff voice reverberates; you can feel the vibrations at your back. “A-are you feeling anything? Better? Worse? Would you walk willingly to your death?”

“Mmm, wow, yeah. It just feels… nice. Rick, what is that stuff? Could I have some to keep with me?”

“Ahem. Uh, no.”

Whatever it was that he put on you makes it difficult to feel upset about that answer. Difficult to feel anything, really. “Okay. Why not?” 

His hand keeps moving. “It’s a controlled substance. Experimental. Supposed to calm animals in slaughterhouses.” He uses his free hand to pry your drooping eyelids open and he peers closer. “Awww shit dawg! And it works! Your pupils are the size of- of a Mzarvap’s asshole after mating season. Yes! I’m awesome.” 

“Wow, yeah, you are!” The violation registers only vaguely; your entire body feels so at ease. You relax into him even more, a willing test subject. His hands go lower, playing at your bare breasts, tracing your ribs. 

He still hasn’t asked you about what happened, or about your day. And you won’t try to tell him.


	48. Stripper Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This request was written for a giveaway on my tumblr.
> 
> the reader is having a birthday party and their friend orders them a stripper unbeknownst to them and it of course is Rick and his slutty self is a huge hit. Then maybe he gives the reader a special birthday present in private.
> 
> Stripper Rick x female reader

“Happy birthday!” Your friend Peggy hands you a small wrapped box with a mischievous smile plastered on her face. Sitting in the living room at her house are you and all your friends, gathered to celebrate. It’s been a subdued and elegant affair, though you hadn’t been able to deter her from choosing the theme ‘ladybusiness’-- whatever that meant. Apparently just having the guests dress up slightly fancier than normal, and drinking a cocktail called the ‘White Lady’.

You tear the wrapping off, reassuring them all the while that they really didn’t need to buy you anything, that you have everything you need, and their company is enough. Inside the box, nestled on a bed of sparkly tissue paper, is a fat stack of crisp new one dollar bills. You look around at your friends in confusion, and slight discomfort. 

“Uh… thanks? Is this your way of saying to treat myself at the spa?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll want to go spending it all yet,” your cousin chimes in. 

You look around your circle of friends, bemused, and now they’re all smiling like that. “Please don’t tell me you opened a mutual fund in my name, that would be--”

A jaunty rapping on the front door interrupts you. Your gathered friends erupt into giggles, over the faint sound of mariachi music coming from outside.

“Come in, it’s open!” Peggy calls. 

You move to set the gift aside, but your college roommate stops you with a whispered ‘you’re gonna need that’. 

The door opens, the mariachi music gets louder. A moment later a man dressed as some kind of bandito character saunters into view.

From there, the refined atmosphere of the party swiftly devolves into a debauched saturnalia of ‘woooooo!’s and shrieking laughter.

“I-I’m Rick-- Ricardo,” the man introduces himself, and when he corrects his name to the Spanish, he trills the R and winks at you. Arousal sparks in your core, you cross your legs and pointedly look him up and down. 

He’s old, probably 60 or 70, but sways over to you with supreme confidence. “Are you--eeugh-- you the birthday girl?” 

You nod, taking in the absurdity of his whole getup: bandoliers of ammo across his bare chest, a pistol holstered low on his thigh, a red handkerchief knotted at his neck. Topping it all off is a huge sombrero, and handlebar mustache, which gets wet when he swigs from a bottle of liquor labeled ‘XXX’. His trousers ride low on his hips, accentuating his slim legs and… oh. _That’s_ why Peggy chose this guy instead of some 20 year old hunk. 

The bulge in his pants is more than promising, especially when he grabs it and shoots you a lascivious grin. He struts around in a circle, his boots clomping on the hardwood floor. 

“H-how we doing tonight, ladieeeees?” His voice is low and rough. “Yeahhhh you ready for some-- some of this old man dick?!” He starts gyrating in time with the mariachi music, and, somehow, manages to make it sexy. 

You cheer and whoop along with your friends, and wonder privately how they had found this guy.

“Awwww yeahhhhh, here we go.” Rick turns around, his back to you and arms over his head. The mariachi music changes to ‘Low’ except the lyrics are a little different:

~Grandpa had dem apple bottom jeans~ Boots with the spurs ~ 

He takes off his sombrero and whirls it over his head, then lets it go flying across the room like a Frisbee. It hits a vase, which topples over and smashes on the floor, but no one cares, least of all Rick. The dance proceeds, though he doesn’t have many items to discard in the first place. The bandoliers go one at a time, then the pistol and holster. He hangs onto his bottle throughout the performance, chugging from it to rounds of inappropriate hooting.

“Wooo yeah Rick, suck it down!” You hear yourself yell, then immediately sit back, wondering what prompted that outburst and why you find him so attractive. He hears you anyway, delighted, and chooses the moment for his big reveal.

He grasps the front of his pants and pulls forward with a flourish, ripping them off completely. 

For once, you are all stunned to silence. Peggy drops her glass. It breaks on the floor. 

“Oh my god…” 

Rick is attired in only a thong, which barely contains his enormous package. He preens a bit, loving the extra attention. You know what to do now. You wave your wad of bills at him and he hip thrusts over to you, turns around, and does a very capable booty roll. Old man can WERK IT, even if he does have a flat, pale old-man ass. You peel a couple ones off your stack and tuck them in his thong. 

Not enough, apparently, You give a few more. He gyrates over to your cousin, makes the rounds of the room, to everyone’s great enjoyment. You watch in anticipation; every time he hip thrusts, or bends over-- really, any time he moves-- his semi-erect cock is at risk of escaping the confines of his banana hammock. The warmth you feel watching him can’t only be attributed to your drinking. 

Eventually he moves back to you, staring you down like you’re the only one in the room. 

“Hey, birthday girl. Y-you-- are you ready to give this old man some love?”

He drops it low and starts to grind on your lap. This is your opportunity to shower him with cash, so you do. His thong is overstuffed; any more money will just fall out. You hold your stack in one hand and make it rain. As if on cue, C.R.E.A.M. (a mariachi version) starts playing. Rick twerks. Turns back to face you, steps one foot on the arm of your chair, and _god his legs are long_ \-- the new position puts his crotch all up in your face. 

“Dolla dolla bills y’all!” He shouts, as everyone throws money at him.

“Ohmygod look!” Your cousin squeals. “Look how flexible he is!”

His flexibility is not where you’re looking at the moment. He rolls his hips, thrusting— that thong _really_ doesn’t leave much to the imagination. He puts his leg down and straddles your chair, leaning in close all close and intimate. 

“Any chance I could take a ride on that mustache?” You say in his ear, half-joking. You hear him chuckle.

“Aaaaalright, ladies! The time has come! Time for the birthday girl’s private dance!” With unexpected strength, he wraps on arm around your waist and hoists you over his shoulder. You _‘eeep!’_ in protest. You hadn’t really expected that line to work. And besides, you’re going to get vertigo up here, he’s so tall.

He doesn’t take you far, just to Peggy’s room, where he deposits you on the bed with a bit more force than necessary. You sit on the edge, swinging your feet, look up at him expectantly. There’s no more music, and yet he’s standing right in front of you, undulating and swaying. You ogle him without shame, taking in the reality of his body. Without the costume, without the affectation of the persona, he’s… just an old man. Skinny and limber, his hip bones and ribs protrude under sallow skin. He is self assured, unflinching at your perusal of him, and it’s mesmerizing.

He takes a drink from his bottle, belches, and finally sets it aside.

“Y-y-you— d’you like what you see, baby?” He rubs himself over the fabric, showing you the exact outline of his cock. “You’ve been staring, I-I saw the way you were lookin at it.” He bites his lip, his eyes hooded as he gazes down at you.

“Everyone was staring,” you say. “You’re a stripper. With a monster dong. And a handlebar mustache. Is that thing even real?”

He frowns. “How about you climb on and find out, huh?”

You smile, reaching for his hand, but he grunts and swats you away. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. Show’s over, sw-- birthday girl. Your friends paid for the whoooole Rick Sanchez experience so tha-eeugh-t’s what you’re getting.”

“Wait, what? What’s the whole experience?”

He sits next to you on the bed, then lies back. “Cool it with the questions, Nancy Drew, just get on— get up here and I’ll show you.”

“I thought this was just a private dance.”

“Trust me you’ll be fine, I’m-- I know what I’m doing. I’m a-a-a seasoned professional.”

Heart racing, you hesitate just a little too long. He rolls his eyes and pulls you to straddle him. It seems his capacity for patient teasing only applies when he’s doing it to other people. Now he’s got you in his sights, he will chase you down and take you.

“This is Peggy’s room,” you say. “I don’t think she’ll appreciate us… you know…” You shift, pressing your clothed mound against his erection. The sound he makes at that is rough and low, from deep in his chest, and it sends a jolt of desire through you. You want to hear it again.

“What, fucking on her bed? It’s your birthday, and even if you have y-you know, those pesky moral hang ups about not taking advantage of your friends, consider this your one day of the year to do what you want. Seize what you want, no consequences.”

It’s your turn to grind on him; you roll your hips, but there’s no relief yet in the friction, only the pure maddening heat of need. It makes you breathless. “Doesn’t that mean I’ll have to do all the work?” 

“What? No. L-look, just— relax. Calm your tits, baby. A-and stop it. Cut that out, quit humping me like a bitch in heat, you want me to nut in my thong before you get a taste? Tuck the hem of your skirt up the waistband.”

“Why?” You ask, even as you obey him.

“—Yeah in front, there ya go princess. Nnnff fuck that’s— those are some sexy panties you got. Cute.” He cups your sex, brushes his thumb over your clit just to see how you’ll react. “Why? Cause I wanna see your pretty little cunt spread around my cock as I fuck you.”

At that you can’t repress a whimper. Rick laughs and makes you lift your hips up and just push your panties to the side; in the same moment he shoves his thong down and his erection springs free. (That scrap of fabric must be bigger on the inside, it’s a miracle he didn’t have a wardrobe malfunction during the group show.) 

His cock is _huge_. Red and veiny and thick. You wonder if, perhaps, you should call the whole thing off, tell him it’s not really your birthday and let him destroy one of your friends instead. But then he’s rubbing the blunt head along your slit, and he moans at how wet and hot you are, how he wants to bury his fat dick in you and hear you scream. 

You brace yourself with both hands on his chest. He grasps your hip, holding his cock and guiding you down slowly, deliberately, onto his length. You wince at the sting, panting as he penetrates you, inch by glorious inch. 

He watches you intently. “That’s— mmm that’s sexy. Y-you ready, baby? You wanna stretch that tight pussy out on my cock, go on. ”

You nod, sitting back. You run a hand through your hair and start to move. You rise on your knees, then sink back down, still a little cautious. He’s so big, it feels like he’s going to split you in two. And yet, your clit throbs, and you moan, telling him how perfectly he fills you.

“Nnnngg _ffuck_ , that’s good. Yeah, just like that, sit on my cock.” He resumes control once you’re adjusted to his size, keeping up a lurid running commentary. His favorite thing is watching the lips of your pussy spread around his cock as he fucks you, he says. _Good girl. You’re a good slut, taking all of my cock, a good little slut with a tight pussy._

You moan in agreement, and start to rub your clit. You think you might be able to get off just listening to his voice, and his lustful groans. He likes to hear himself talk, and you won’t complain about it. 

“Let’s see— lemme see those tits. I-I-I-I wanna see ‘em bounce while I fuck you.” 

You get one button into undoing your shirt before he loses patience. He grabs at the front of your blouse and yanks it. The fabric rips, buttons go flying everywhere, and you promise yourself you’ll be indignant about it later. For now… you slip the straps of your bra down so he doesn’t ruin that too, and your breasts spill over out of the cups. 

He groans at the sight, and accelerates his pace, pounding into you. The room is filled with obscene sounds of flesh on flesh, and your needy cries.

Arousal hums in your body, electrifying your nerves. You circle your clit, knowing you’re getting close. You shift again, leaning slightly forward and _oh_ —

That angle. His girth splits you open, and in the adjusted position he hits the perfect spot inside you over and over, at a relentless pace. What was that about it being your birthday, again? This man is an expert at taking what he wants, and screw anyone else. God help you if you get in his way. 

So you ride him. The lewd thrill of fucking a 70 year old stripper you’ve just met only spurs your desire and you gasp as he rolls his hips expertly, the same as he did while dancing. “Rick, yes, _please_ … I’m…”

Calling out his name is the right thing. He likes that. His voice hitches, then goes lower, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, and pulls-pushes — you down, his hips up, as far and deep as he can go. He has too much to appreciate all at once: the bountiful spectacle as you begin to climax riding his cock. 

Your naked breasts bouncing, nipples peaked to hard little buds. Your flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes glassy. Most of all, your sweet pink cunt swallowing his shaft, making it slick and shiny. You appeal to his name, clenching around him, your fingers working your clit right to the edge. And you watch the same, dragging him along with you.

He’s panting, his breathing ragged. “Ohhhh ffuuu—“ He stutters, trailing off after moaning your name. “Oh fuck I’m gonna cum—“ He strokes into you, his whole body flexing, stiff. This deep, brutal fucking is for him, not you, but you love it, love the sting of his thick cock in your swollen pussy. 

He bites his drool-covered lower lip with a carnal smirk. He lifts your hips, shifting your position one more time, then buries himself balls deep, pounding your sore cunt; the pain blurs to pleasure and you come undone. There are two spots of color high on his cheeks, his eyes gleam as he watches you fall to ecstasy. 

You plead to him, you don’t know how many times, amidst the intense rolling bliss that seems to extend forever. Vaguely, you’re aware that his cock throbs inside you, he pumps cum into you with a shuddered groan, gripping your hips so hard you’re sure his hand prints will be there tomorrow. Gradually he slows, then stalls. 

You collapse forward on his chest and lie there for awhile, until he grumbles and pushes you off. You feel his seed leaking from your pussy, onto Peggy’s bedspread. Mentioning this to him elicits a bark of laughter, followed by a hearty round of invective about ‘boundaries’ and ‘respect’.

You roll over onto an uncomfortable lump. You pick up the pillow, throw back the comforter and find a enormous purple strap on dildo. _Oh, Peggy_ … You giggle, equal parts shock and amusement.

“Wh-what’s so funny?” Rick asks after a thunderous belch. (He’s retrieved his XXX bottle and started drinking again.) 

You hold up the implement and his eyes widen. “If you’re not too tired, old man, maybe we can try this next.”


	49. Rixting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick sends you inappropriate messages on your company’s internal chat system while you’re at work.

Your cell phone, as you have explained to Rick, is off-limits during work hours-- to you as well as him. A disaster was once narrowly averted when your boss asked you what was so fascinating on that tiny screen that it was keeping you from doing your job. Rick had sent you a boudoir photo of himself, which you hastily concealed, muttering, ‘facebook, sorry, won’t happen again’. All that now means is that the cell phone stays in your purse. 

Nor have you given him the number for the landline at your desk, as it could be monitored by the IT people, and Rick gets a kick out of starting conversations with ‘guess where I just put my balls?!’

In truth, you would love such a distraction while at work. You sit in a grey cubicle in a room with no windows under fluorescent lights. Your desk is just one of many in a grid maze of identical boxes. You stare up at the rectangular ceiling panels for a solid minute, contemplating which task on your list of drudgery you should tackle first. The blandness doesn’t make it any easier to focus.

You click around your computer’s desktop, answering emails and trying to tune out your coworkers’ incessant chatter. It’s early yet, not even 9 AM, and you slouch in your chair, resigning yourself to the fact that this is going to be a long and unbearable day.

You look away from your computer screen for a moment to write down a meeting time reminder on a sticky note. When you look back, the icon for your organization’s internal chat system is blinking orange.

New message. No one ever uses this thing. Weird. You click the icon and it opens a chat window.

The sender is someone you don’t recognize, and besides everyone goes by their first and last names, so why--?

With a start you realize who it is. Rick has a screen name reminiscent of a teenager on AIM in the early 2000’s, because when has he ever made any attempt to be mature or appropriate?

New message from _xXx~r1Ck~*~d1Ck~xXx_

And, of course, _A/S/L?_ is his opening line.

You smile in spite of yourself, and reply: 

_Why, Rick? And how are you even on here? This is a secure network._

Not that you’re surprised he somehow managed to hack into the system. 

Rick 8:46 AM: _If I told you I’d have to kill you. And I’m horny and you said I’d be arrested for portaling into your workplace so… compromise._

You sigh and roll your eyes (knowing Rick, this will be the opposite of a compromise, because he doesn’t do compromise), and begin typing a response, but he comes through with this:

Rick 8:47 AM: _You’re wearing that little black dress right? The one I fucked you in last week and you complained your pussy got so sopping wet you couldn’t sit back down at the restaurant without leaving a mark on those fancy ass chairs._

You 8:47 AM: _Mhmm I am. You pause, then add, and the red soled heels too. Matching lipstick and everything. The memory of that evening sends a shiver of arousal through you and you shift in your seat, crossing your legs._

Rick 8:48 AM: _fuck yes that’s perfect. makes you juuuuust the right height so I barely have to bend you over. Just push you against a wall and lift your dress..._

You jiggle your foot, waiting for the rest of his message. Which doesn’t come. And?? You prompt.

All he sends is a _;)_

Irritated, you pause, reread his teasing message about what he’d do to you, and your imagination takes it further. _I’m just gonna assume that means you can’t finish the job, old man. Don’t have the energy to get it up, can’t get your cock hard and rub the head on my pussy, feel how wet I am._ Taunting him like this is only safe from behind a screen. In person he would have smirked, grabbed you by the throat, forced you to your knees-- 

Rick interrupts your daydream (he’s so good at interrupting you). _Anyone watching you?_

You look over your shoulder furtively. _Not right now._

Rick 8:50 AM: _Suck your pinky in your mouth. Either hand, get it nice and wet._

You look around again, then suck your left pinky, wishing it was any part of him instead, and wondering what he has in store for you. 

_… did you do it?_ He demands less than twenty seconds later. 

You 8:52 AM: _Are you typing with one hand? Please say yes, please say yes._

Rick 8:52 AM: _No hands. Just switched to voice to text. Got one hand on my fat dick and the other on my big sweaty saggy balls._

There’s a lull, and you picture him sitting in just his lab coat, long legs sprawled out. You like that his balls are saggy, and that he’s old and wrinkly and sleazy and crass. Telling him all this— not quite as easy, and it took long enough to admit it to yourself. _I want to lick your balls and suck on them until you get close to cumming as you jack yourself off._ You type it, feeling utterly daring-- the fact that you’re on your work computer, telling Rick over a secure network in lurid detail how you’d worship him. You sit up straighter, re-cross your legs. You crave friction. _Then I want you to shove your cock down my throat and fuck my mouth and--_

You hear footsteps approaching-- a coworker-- and quickly minimize the chat window, bringing up a spreadsheet. When the coworker passes, you bring up the window again, and read the fallout of your incomplete message.

Rick 9:04 AM: _Fuck. I’m so fucking hard._

Rick 9:04 AM: _You’re gonna open nice and wide, flatten your tongue and look up at me all pretty, I know your jaw hurts but you can take it._

Rick 9:04 AM: _So good, baby, sucking my cock like this, I’m gonna empty my balls in your mouth and you better swallow all my cum so you don’t get any on your dress._

Rick 9:05 AM: _Where’d you go?_

You’ll have to be more cautious, but the compulsion to please Rick is, at times, much stronger than the logic of conducting yourself appropriately.

You 9:06 AM: _sorry, here. I’m not alone, you know_

Rick has a response almost immediately; he must be staring at his screen as intently as you’re fixed on yours. _I don’t give a shit. You think if I were there I’d let you bitch and whine like you’re doing now?_

A pause, your hands hover on the keys. You know he wouldn’t.

Rick 9:06 AM: _NO. Like you already said, you’d be on your knees in front of me in a broom closet, moaning and drooling on my cock like the good little slut you are. You know your place._

You 9:07 AM: _You’d ruin my makeup rick. Can’t go back to my desk or sit in meetings looking like i just got ravished._

Rick 9:07 AM: _Not my problem. You beg for it like a slut, I’ll treat you like one._

You bite back a whimper, failing to make it completely silent. Your coworker in the cubicle next to you stops typing for a moment and you still, breathing shallowly. You lean back in your chair, a little shaky, with the forbidden thrill of desire quickening in your core. Even through a screen, Rick’s effect on you is potent and irresistable. Rick you know I can’t risk it. 

You stare at the chat window with Rick but nothing else comes within a minute.

You 9:09 AM: _Rick?_

Nothing. You ask again a couple minutes later, and almost take a break to step outside and call him, or bring your phone to the bathroom. Instead you leave him the following message, aware that it betrays how pathetic you are:

_...please I’m so fucking wet for you :( I had to stand up because I don’t want to leave a spot on my dress or my chair and people are looking at me weird._

Still nothing. Rick withholds a response for the next few hours. In the meantime, your schedule is busy. You attend two meetings, submit five reports, and fill out a spreadsheet, accidentally entering ‘Rick Sanchez has a big old donkey dick’ in one field instead of the date. You go to lunch, and run into a friend who wants to chat in the cafeteria. All of this you endure with quiet patience. But the whole time you sit with your legs crossed, prim and composed, your pussy aches. You can feel how slick you are as you walk down the hallway to the conference room, heels tapping on the floor. Your hips sway a bit more than usual, and at several instances during the meetings, your concentration falters and the image of what Rick must be doing at home dominates your consciousness. 

He’s in your head, he has you pinned by the neck. _‘Scream’_ , he would command you. _‘I-I-I wanna hear my name and a sincere ‘thank you’ when I shove my dick in your tight little ass.’_ If he could reach you he’d be vicious at this point, he’d have you facedown on the bed and he’d fuck you into the mattress, all savage and carnal and growling. 

_Focus._ You chide yourself, though it helps nothing, and you zone out through the rest of the post-lunch production meeting. 

When you come back to your desk and unlock your computer, the chat window is blinking again. Your heart leaps and you open it immediately instead of checking new emails. 

He’d sent it only fifteen minutes ago.

Rick 1:01 PM: _You want a chance to redeem yourself so I don’t just tie your hands behind your back and cum on your face when you get home?_

You 1:16 PM: _YEs. Yes please._ You bite your nail, staring with apprehension at the ‘...’ notification that he’s typing. The message comes quickly. He’s been waiting for you. 

Rick 1:17 PM: _Alright. Here’s what you’re gonna do. First, squeeze your tits for me. You know how I like watching them bounce when I fuck you._

You 1:17 PM: _I’m not wearing a bra._

Rick 1:17 PM: _Fuck, even better. Roll one nipple between your fingers. Hard. Do nothing else, make it hurt._

You obey, the heavy fabric of your dress deadening the sensation somewhat. It’s still enough to make all the latent need from earlier come flooding back. _Can I do the other one?_

_Yes. tell me what you’re thinking about as you do. I know you’re wet for me._

You flush, hot with desire, and the inability to do anything about it only turns you on more. _Fuck. I’m thinking about you fucking me Rick. thinking about your hands on me, grabbing my tits as you pound my ass and I can feel your balls slapping against my empty pussy_

_Good girl. You know you take my dick so well, hands spreading your ass so I can see my fat cock splitting you open. But we’re not quite there yet._

_PLEASE. Rick it’s been all day._ In person you’d be sobbing, wailing for him to fuck you already, however he wants. 

When he next replies, you can almost hear the perverse delight inflected in his gravelly voice. _Greedy. Nasty little slut, I bet you’re a wet fucking mess, you’ve been dreaming about my massive dick all damn day... slip your finger down there and tell me. Same one you were sucking on earlier._

_You know I’m at work, right?_

_Do it._

_Rick._ You type in warning, though you’re not sure if it’s to yourself or him. _What if someone walks by?_

_Didn’t we already go over this? Question me again and you won’t get to cum when you get home. And I’d ASSUME you have enough common sense to take your fingers off your cunt when one of those dipshits you always complain about wanders over to yap at you._

_I’m doing it_ , you type, before spreading your legs. Your face is red, you pray no one comes to talk to you. You slip a finger underneath your panties and feel the slick heat of your pussy. _fuck im wet._ You have to type slower now, one handed.

_Now taste yourself. Lick that finger clean, baby, tell me how good you taste._

You gather more of the moisture, doing no more or less than what he commands, then bring it to your mouth. Dart your tongue out to taste it, imagining he can see you, watching through the screen, and how his smile would widen. How gleeful he would be at the spectacle of you, risking this debasement to please him. You suck your finger in your mouth, tasting the musky sweetness, and tell him. 

_Nice and tight and juicy_ , he adds. _You just want that pussy filled with my dick. So I’d fuck that first, pull out right as you’re about to cum…Use spit for lube. Gonna fuck your ass next, it’ll hurt._

_It always does. I like it i love the sting and how your cock is so thick i feel like i can’t move_

Rick switches gears, and you swear you can hear him laughing as he torments you. _Oh no, but you can’t cum because you’re at work, can you :) The most you can possibly do is rub your wet cunt over your panties, and I bet they’re soaked._

_You’re right. Tehy are_ (your typing accuracy is steadily decreasing) _have been since this morning and i’m dying_

_Goooood to know. So I’m gonna keep telling you what I’m doing and what I’m thinking about doing to you until I shoot my load. Knowing you’re sitting there squirming. :)_

_god dmn it Rick_

_Alright, fine, since you can’t even make it eight hours without me. Rub your pussy. Two fingers, under your panties, circle your clit._

_There’s no one here right now i could probably get away with it… i’m so close i could cum right now. Pelase._ You correct quickly. _Please._

He sends a picture that makes you swiftly minimize the window, even though most of your coworkers are in a meeting. Still paranoid, you check your immediate area, and when you’re convinced it’s safe, you open it again and stare at it, transfixed. His huge erection is front and center, the head swollen and red and shiny. You close your eyes for a second and bite your lip, exhaling. How did he send a picture? Don’t think about it.

_Did yuo cum?_ You ask, unable to sit still. His balls hang low and heavy between his pale thighs, his shirt is pushed up to reveal his sharp hip bones and the patch of grey hair at the base of his cock. Next to it, he holds a bottle of whiskey perched on his leg, and the scary part is that it doesn’t make his cock look small in comparison. 

_About to. Describe yourself for me right now._

You tell him everything. You want the next picture. _I’m at my desk. As you know. My face is probably flushed, i have my hand up my dress, under my panties and i’m rubbing my clit with one finger. It’s i’m so wet please rick it’s been hours. No one’s around, they went to a meeting please let me cum._ You type too quickly, making mistakes without enough concern to correct them.

A full minute goes by with no response. Finally, out of sheer desperation, you add, _Fuck it. Portal in here idc i need your dick right now_

And Rick provides. You hear the metallic hum of a portal opening behind you. You only have time to turn around in your seat before his hand is on the back of your neck. He hauls you up, some of your hair and the fabric of your dress are caught in his grasp too; you resist out of shock, only to have your hair pulled painfully, and your dress ripped at the collar. He shoves you against the edge of your desk, bending you over slightly. 

“You-- I’m here. Y-y-y-you need me _right now_ , you thirsty little slut?” Rick is behind you, his pants undone--must have portaled exactly like that-- and he wastes no time hitching up the hem of your dress. “Did I read that right?” His voice is quiet, rough, his breath hot on your neck. You can smell the whiskey, mingling with the scents of chemicals and motor oil and Irish Spring soap on his clothes. 

“Yes,” you breathe, as loud as you dare.

“How about the picture, w-was it-- did you like it?” He fumbles with your panties, his hard thick length pressed against your bare ass. This could go wrong. It could go so, so wrong. 

“Will you fuck me already?” You hiss, anticipation and nerves bundling into a singular, pulsing need. 

Frustrated, he yanks at the lacy scrap which is still in his way. Too hard, it rips. You cry out in surprise and annoyance but he claps a hand over your mouth-- _s-shut the fuck up already_ \-- and shoves into your slick, swollen pussy.

You moan into his hand; he doesn’t start slow, allows you no time to adjust. He simply uses you, like he’d been using his hand a moment earlier in the privacy of his garage. His girth splits you open, he fucks you deep and fast and hard. His other hand paws at your breasts, less for you than for himself, and he muffles a belch against your neck. “R-reaallll nice rack, baby, A plus. Y-you gotta let me tittyfuck you somet-- one of these days.”

You try to nod ‘yes’; he gropes your tits, grabbing roughly to give himself leverage as he drives into you. Someone nearby must be able to hear the blunt sounds of flesh on flesh, and Rick’s ragged breath, no matter how quiet you’re trying to be. You’re so close you’re past caring. 

“Yeahhh, oh _fffuck_ , feel-- take my fat dick, tha--eeeugh--that’s good. Good girl--” He starts to come undone before you, you can hear it in his voice. He must have been edging himself all day, then, playing with you remotely to entertain himself. 

His hand on your chest goes lower; he wants to sweep you along with him, as he always does. Nothing of you is truly your own, and hasn’t been since you met Rick. You manage to hold back, balance on the edge-- after all, what’s one more moment of agony after hours of exquisite torture? 

The potential for disaster only winds the tension tighter. His fingers find your clit-- he grunts something, feeling again how much of a wet mess you are. Your arousal is running down your legs now, making your thighs and your stockings sticky. Rick swipes once at the sensitive flesh, his rhythm faltering as he reaches his own release. He swipes again, all finesse gone, rolls his hips at a certain, perfect angle and presses his fingers to your clit and holds them, even as he strokes into you brutally. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching around his thick cock, and claw at his hand covering your mouth. You have to scream, you need him to hear his name, _he feels so big and thick and you’ll never ask for anything else_ \-- 

But he stays firmly in place, and groans in your ear: “ y-you nasty little-- getting off w-with an disgusting old drunk like me, when you’re supposed to be working. _Slut_. Y-you’re so fucking sexy, oh ffuuuck cum for me, do it, cum on my dick--” His voice. It’s always his voice, rough with lust and amusement, and he _knows_ he exposes your desperation so easily.

Pleasure overtakes you, every synapse firing, every sensation connected. A whole day’s worth of them, your own taste and scent and touch augmenting text on a screen, and now the real thing, all of it, behind you. Claiming you. 

He’s right there with you, his composure lapsing, and there’s no one to silence him. He empties his balls, pumping his cum into you. He moans, loud and primal, which you’re sure people will be able to hear, and shouldn’t they be coming back from the meeting right about now? 

Yes. In fact, you hear footsteps. Rick, after a moment, hears them too. He pulls out hastily, swearing, and you tug your dress down, turning to face him. He’s already backing up, has his portal gun in hand. 

“Be-eeeug-tter get back to making those spreadsheets a-and all that bullshit. By the way your, uh, your lipstick’s smudged.” He looks you up and down, taking in your disheveled appearance: thoroughly fucked, with his cum and your own juices trickling down your legs, ruining your stockings. He grins, his tongue darting out to lick some of the saliva on his lower lip. Then he pats your cheek for good measure before opening a portal and stepping through it. “See you when you get home, baby. Have a good rest of your day at work, byeeeeee!”


	50. Gangbang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gangbang, Rickcest in the background, DP, deepthroating, biting, squirting 
> 
> with the following Ricks: c-137, Miami, Demon, Priest, Cop, Doofus… and more. 
> 
> shoutout to my internet bff for confirming what I think we should have known all along: Rick’s cum has addictive properties.

The tricky thing about inviting Ricks over to a house party is that despite there being an infinite number of them in infinite dimensions, somehow it still comes down to six degrees of separation. Your Rick knows a Rick, who knows a Rick, who knows a Rick…

So when Rick– the one you think of as yours, though you’ll never tell him so– decided to co-opt your house to host a few buddies over for beers and a poker game, you should have expected the worst. Should have bought more snacks, at least, and the 24 rack of beers in the fridge is essentially a single day’s alcohol ration for the average alcoholic science grandpa.

More and more of them trickle as it gets later and darker, by portal, by ship, too many to keep track of. Between emergency trips to the corner store for more liquor and yelling at them not to stain your new sectional couch, you maintain your delusion that you can keep this under control. You tamp down rising annoyance, and the slim flicker of desire. You’d be lying if you denied the fact that being at the center of this many Ricks is your ultimate fantasy, albeit one that stays buried deep. In your head it’s a wonderful idea, one that never fails to make you squirm and blush. In reality you would be nervous, overwhelmed. They would toss you around, degrade you, wreck you for their entertainment.

And yet, the curiosity persists. You never do know when to say enough is enough; you and Rick have that in common and it’s led to some close calls before.

The first sign of inevitable calamity is Miami’s arrival. You glimpse his electric blue Bugatti from the kitchen window and bustle to the front door to let him in, but he’s already strolling through into the foyer. No knock, no ‘sorry, but it was unlocked’.

“Alright there, doll?” His grin is wolfish, lascivious, his eyes gleaming as he looks at you over his mirrored sunglasses. They always seem to slip down his nose when he’s talking to you, and he can’t be bothered to push them back up. _The better to see you with, my dear._

You return his smile, feeling bold, flushing with arousal at the memory of the raunchy weekend you’d spent with him– a rare indulgence courtesy of your Rick. “Just didn’t realize Rick had invited you…”

Miami holds up two bottles of champagne. As if you would have turned him away otherwise. You take them from him, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek and you smell his expensive cologne, mingling with the scent of rum. He murmurs something about pouring the champagne on your naked body later, and don’t worry about wasting it because– he slips a hand around your waist and spins you around to observe his entourage, if they can be called that, wheeling an entire pallet of it up your front walkway. Leave it to Miami to sleaze up a party in the classiest way possible. Beyond that you see, down at the curb, a cop emerging from the passenger side of Miami’s car; he greets a priest and another Rick who step through a portal together.

Cop and Priest you recognize from your visit with Miami, and you feel a surge of relief (the irony of thinking of only certain Ricks as ‘familiar faces’ does not escape you). That is, until you reexamine the Rick accompanying Priest. He is rangy, dressed in rags, and stalks up the walkway behind the other two. When he catches sight of you his face lights with an indecent smile, and his eyes burn with violent energy.

“Who’s–?” You start to ask Miami, but he silences you with a sharp, imperious look.

Cop and Priest pass by you into the house. Cop is the only one to give you a kind greeting; Priest sneers at you like he knows your twisted fantasy of getting railed by Rick after Rick after Rick. He’d worn that same disapproving expression even as he had fucked your ass that one weekend at Miami’s place.

_“Miami,”_ the third Rick pauses in front of you. He looks like a Rick, and sounds like a Rick, but something about him makes you profoundly uneasy.

“Got any more deals you want to make, Miami? My price is still the same.”

Miami flicks his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Not today, Demon. Just here to enjoy c-137’s, uh, hospitality.” His hand slides down to your ass and squeezes it.

Demon sticks his tongue out at you and your eyes widen. It’s cut down the middle, forked like a reptile’s, and his saliva is black and oily. Lust flares in you suddenly, imagining what that tongue would feel like to kiss, or if he would deign to lick your cunt with it. The attraction is strange, you don’t understand it, but it’s there, undeniable. Demon cocks his head at you, cataloging your obvious reaction, his narrow chest rising and falling; he seems poised to lunge at you until Miami reminds him that there’s whiskey in the kitchen.

Demon slinks off, and Miami follows him after patting you on the ass and reminding you that he had bought you something nice and he expects you to wear it if you have any hope of sucking his dick tonight.

You close the front door, and look down at your current outfit, which is sweatpants and a tank top. You’ll get attention no matter how you’re dressed, but Miami had made his terms clear, and plus, you want to see your Rick’s expression– not that he’s particularly generous about sharing you, but he likes to see you ruined, and likes that you enjoy it. You make your way to your room, weaving through the throng of bodies and handing off the bottles of champagne to random Ricks. You change in quiet privacy, admiring the way the dress shows off your figure, put on some makeup, and steel your nerve to go back out there.

No hush falls over the living room when you emerge. Good. They’re occupied with other things. Even more have shown up, including a group you overhear referred to as SEAL team Ricks, and a Rick with buckteeth and a bowl cut who looks lonely and ignored as he sips a glass of milk.

Your house is occupied wall-to-wall with Ricks and it’s making your heart race, so you putter around some more, making sure everyone has drinks, offering food, and searching for your Rick.

He finds you first. “Hey. Don’t– stop trying to play the perfect host. Ricks don’t care if the hors d’oeuvres are laid out all nice on a platter. Forget that stupid shit and have fun. Th-th-this isn’t a, y’know, an everyday occurrence.”

You look around and, indeed, very few of them are eating. They all have drinks. Some are comparing portal guns, having loud arguments about Science, egging each other on to do kegstands, a couple are making out. A Rick dressed all in black, sporting dark circles under his eyes, argues with a Rick in a badly-fitted tuxedo; tuxedo Rick gestures with a baton, and dark circles Rick swats the thing out of his face angrily, yelling something about ‘real art’.

You ask in an undertone, “did you plan this?”

He smirks at you, and in that moment you know he must have. Fear and arousal course through you, conflating into a unified need that settles low and hot at your core. This is really happening.

“Hey everyone!” He shouts. “Have an announcement to make. Biiiiiig announcement coming up. I’m Rick c-137, some of you may know me as the Rickest Rick–” a chorus of groans ripples through the room, prompting your Rick to talk louder “– _the Rickest Rick._ And I want you all to know that my girlfriend here is a-a-a li–eugh– little slut and she loves being stuffed to the brim with cock.”

Your face burns with embarrassment. _“Rick,”_ you hiss, steadfastly ignoring the assembly of Ricks, who chuckle knowingly at the declaration.

“Sh-she– this one’s a real slut for a dick in her ass. Oh, and she looooooves licking my saggy balls, just poppin them in her mouth and slobbering on them.” He pulls you in, kisses you fiercely, makes a show of possessing you. He knows you want this, has known for a long time. Be careful what you wish for, he’s warned you. If anyone could make it come true, it’s him, and you adore him for it. You melt into his embrace, still highly aware of the crowd watching you; you had noticed some of them already palming erections through their trousers.

He breaks the kiss and pushes you towards the crowd. “So, uh. Have at it. Get fresh with a young lady, it’s what Ricks do best. Treat her right. I-I-I’m getting beer, I’ll be right back.”

He disappears and you stand there, heart beating wildly in your chest. The rush of arousal supersedes your instinct to flee; in that frozen moment looking from face to face, you find no hint of consideration, either from the ones you recognize, like Miami and his friends, nor the generic Ricks. They will not spare you, and you exhale shallowly, betraying your excitement.

That’s all they need, and they’re on you, a flurry of hands and mouths and Ricks surrounding you on all sides. It’s too much, almost immediately. You can feel their cocks, hard and hot, through their pants, pressing against your hips and ass. The Rick in front of you, one you don’t recognize, takes your face between his hands and kisses you. His lips are dry, his stubble scratchy. His long fingers splay into your hair and he tastes of gin.

More pairs of hands than you can count paw at your form fitting dress, lifting the hem and pulling down the neckline. It’s an uncoordinated effort, fueled by unbridled lust. Your bra goes, you feel it unhooked by one, the straps cut by another. Then your tits are exposed, groped roughly and carelessly. More. Nothing makes you happier, you’re vibrant, feverish, you need more. You rise to the touch, to the kiss, eager, listening to the chorus of gruff voices around you. Your panties are pulled halfway down your thighs, you hear the lacy fabric rip, then a long finger is shoved into your wet cunt.

“Ohhh fuck she’s tight–” He curls it, pressing his palm to your clit, letting you rock against it.

You moan into the mouth of the Rick kissing you, only to have your head wrenched away. The Rick with dark circles under his eyes claims your mouth, hot and searching, his tongue sweeps in. His passion persuades you to block out everything else for a moment save for the bourbon on his breath, and the way he nips at your lower lip. His hands tangle in your hair, he moves down to your neck, sucking and biting. At last you catch a glimpse of all the Ricks surrounding you. You can’t keep track, but you see Miami, who winks at you, and Cop, two spots of color high on his cheeks, Priest and Demon, a couple of the SEALs.

Another hand, can’t be the same as the one fingering you, reaches down and teases the sensitive puckered skin of your asshole. Someone else spreads your cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh. A cap clicks open, another Rick spits, then one of them is working a finger into your ass and you tense, worrying it will be too much, they’re too big for you to take right away if you’re standing up.

“Bed? Please?” They just laugh at you, and ignore your instruction to at least put a towel down if this is happening on the couch.

Sometime around when you’re pulled on a Rick’s lap, straddling him and sinking onto his thick length, it occurs to you to ask, “which–mmh– which Rick are you? Which dimension?” Your voice pitches higher the deeper he goes, your pussy swallowing his cock inch by inch, too tight to go any faster.

“What the fuck does it matter? Y-you wanna know what to scream when I– when I make you cum?”

A Rick standing next you nudges your ear with his erection. “Hey, if the two of you wa–eeguh– wanna shut up and suck my dick, anytime now. Either one of you, I’m not picky.” You turn your head up and see that it’s one of the SEAL team guys, sporting a mohawk. The Rick beneath you flips him off, grabbing your ass and jerking his hips up, burying himself in you to the hilt. You gasp at the sensation, overfull and aching; Mohawk seizes the opportunity, shoves in and starts fucking your mouth.

And so it begins, a procession of Ricks taking turns with you, jockeying for a position. Your eyes water at Mohawk’s rough treatment; he grants you no quarter, tilting your head back and making you gag on his cock. A Rick comes up behind you, you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge your ass.

“G-getting in– you’re going straight for that ass, huh, Father Rick?”

Priest grunts in reply, something about having principles, damnit, steadying you with his hand at the small of your back. He adds more lube, slips one finger in your ass, then works another in. _Fuck._ It feels wonderful, and completely too much but you’re immobile, and gagged and you can do nothing more than moan when Priest withdraws his fingers.

The one beneath you starts to cum, thrusting up into you viciously until his movements grow slick. Mohawk follows suit a moment later and you drink down what he gives you. Priest repositions you quickly, sitting down and flipping you so you’re on his lap with your back to his chest. “H-hold— hold your legs open, slut. Wider. NNnnf—“ he supports you with an arm around your waist, his other hand guides his cock to your back entrance and then– _oh._

He lowers you slowly, only because faster is impossible. You keen at the sting as the blunt head breaches that tight ring of muscle; he holds you up, stopping you from taking more, and yet relentless, barely letting you adjust before giving you more of his length. He growls in your ear as he fucks you open with short, shallow strokes, until at last he’s fully seated in your ass, your hips resting against his– how you’re a slut, showing off your juicy wet cunt to all these men, and your tight little ass stuffed with a fat dick.

“Language, Father,” Demon Rick chides him mockingly, and Priest grumbles something back in Latin.

You look around at the audience again, unable to ignore the base thrill you get from seeing them all there, watching you intently, all wanting a piece. Your clit throbs, you need so desperately to touch it, but before you can vocalize your need, more Ricks close in, presenting their erections for you to service.

“Wh-why the fuck is this taking so long–”

“Not efficient–” 

They fill you, spread you, bruise you. Debase you for a fleeting night of entertainment and you beg for more. Your first orgasm sweeps over you at the same time that Priest finishes in your ass; a Rick reaches down and rubs your clit and you writhe and moan, pleasure coursing through you.

It leaves you hazy, ever more pliant, smiling and flushed. You’re picked up and deposited on yet another Rick, and he enters your cunt in a single movement. A moment later there’s one behind you, pushing into your ass, and it’s easier now but still tight.

“Oh, fuck, Rick…”

Two Ricks you don’t know, one fucking your pussy, one fucking your ass– make that three. A hand jerks your head to the right instead of left, and before he shoves his cock down your throat you glimpse, in the circle of Ricks watching, several of them making out with each other and you melt. The Ricks inside you feel you spasm around them.

“Y-you wanna cum again for me, baby? Come on, l-lemme feel– I wanna feel that pussy squeeze my dick, god– _fuck_ you’re sexy–”

Rick cums in your mouth, another Rick grumbles that he’s been waiting and elbows the other Rick out of the way. Before you have time to swallow, the next one shoves in with a hoarse groan. A succession of them, in every hole, tossing you around, competing, laughing gruffly at whatever pleading noises you make when you cum. Again, and again. You lose track, can feel their seed leaking from from your ass and pussy, sticky on your thighs and tits, neck, mouth and chin. It’s still not enough.

One of them is your Rick, you’re sure, because you can taste him, the salt and musk on his skin, and the faint scent of Irish Spring soap, which Miami claimed no other Rick used. The truest sign, though, is the way he fucks your mouth, lazy and familiar, smirking down at you, his pupils blown wide and dark with lust. He takes his time with you, making a show of it for his guests, holding your face between his hands. It’s leisurely, but not a reprieve for you. Each stroke in he presses his balls against your chin, the sparse hairs at the base of his cock tickle your nose and he holds you there for a moment, until you whine, eyes watering.

He bites his drool slicked lower lip, enjoying the sight of you taking three dicks at once. Even as you’re blowing him, one Rick finishes in your ass, pounding you hard, making you ache and clench, leaving the hole slick and ready; within seconds another Rick takes his place, though you can’t turn your head. No idea who it is, even if you could recognize every Rick at this party. Your Rick cums down your throat, all slow and measured, giving a deep, satisfied groan. After he pulls out he runs his thumbs over your eyebrows, then under your eyes.

He bends, putting his face close to yours. Other Ricks would be hassled to bust a nut and move on. Not c-137. He glares in warning at a few of them who jostle him, then refocuses on you. “ _Je-eeugh–eeesus._ Y-y-you look like hell.”

Indeed. Your eyes are hooded, cheeks red, makeup long since smudged and you’re shining with sweat. You’d like to kiss him, to thank him for this privilege. Instead, you lick the saliva that’s running down his chin. He grins, holds your jaw in one hand, forcing your mouth open, and spits. You swallow it, lips sticky, gazing up at him. He jokes sometimes that you’re addicted to something in his blood. “That’s my good slut.” He pats your face, not very gently, and blends back in with the crowd.

There are still more Ricks and you’re approaching exhaustion, saturated with pleasure, your body humming. You doubt you can cum again, though you still want more. It will never be enough. Your legs shake when you try to stand. There are Ricks around you now– your new couch is conveniently large, perfect for an orgy, and many are taking advantage of that fact.

Kissing each other, tearing at each others’ clothes, sucking and fucking each other just as roughly as they’ve treated you.

With a start you realize that the Rick beneath you is now Miami; he’s shed his pink linen sport coat, blue silk shirt and trousers, leaving him naked save for his mirrored sunglasses and gold chain. He lifts you, his hands encircling your waist, and guides you down onto his cock.

“Rick… _papi_ …”

His mouth quirks at hearing his name. “Wh-what number am I? What’s it called after sloppy seconds?” He rolls his hips, filling you easily, perfectly, you can feel cum and your own juices running down your legs.

You whine, oversensitized but needing friction. You’d been wondering when Miami would take his turn, had been looking forward to it, and getting to lick and bite his hipbones, tease him the way you know he likes before taking him in your mouth.

“Y-y-you know what I think? I think it’s called being a nasty _slut_ –” he pushes all the way in “– for some cock. S-some old man’s big cock. That’s what you like. You decided one day that you like some big– some old man’s fat dick and you’ll take it wherever you can get it, damn the consequences, right?”

True, mostly. You hadn’t so much decided as been subjected to an unwelcome revelation. You nod anyway, a little frantic, and start to apologize, explain that the dress he gave you got messed up, but a Rick behind you speaks, and the malevolent undercurrent in his voice silences you.

“Stay _still_.” The Demon. He folds your arms behind you, holding your wrists at the small of your back, and makes you lean forward, nearly chest to chest with Miami, who pumps into you lazily, spreading your ass cheeks open. The angle changes everything, Demon aligns himself with your entrance and pushes in. With Miami filling your cunt there is more resistance despite the slickness of cum filling you and your own arousal. It’s a tight fit and Demon gives an animalistic groan as your ass swallows his thick length.

They start fucking you in tandem, a fast, unrelenting rhythm, making your tits bounce in Miami’s face as they drill you. To your left and right, pairs of Ricks are doing the same thing; one right next to you getting his dick sucked notices you watching and offers you his flask, tilts it to your mouth and you drink as much as he lets you. Cheap whiskey with a metallic aftertaste but it doesn’t matter.

Demon demands your attention back, gathering your hair in one hand and yanking sharply. You cry out, arching backward, tensing at the pain and pleasure rising again, unrefined and hot. He licks the shell of your ear and you shiver at the sensation, two halves of his tongue. Novel and bizarre and… intriguing. He knows he’s got you.

“Let’s make a deal,” he purrs, moving down your neck. He slows, as does Miami, and you whimper at the loss of friction. Your clit pulses and you feel both of them in you, thick and hard. You try to roll your hips and get them going again but Miami slaps the outside of your thigh, growling a warning about pouting and disrespect.

“Me or him?” You ask Demon, remembering their earlier conversation.

_“You.”_ That low, ominous echo again; it makes you tremble. He bites your neck without much pressure, as if testing for something– your reaction, or the softness of your skin?

Your voice catches. “What– ah– what kind of deal?”

“The cop. He’s been hanging back the whole time, holding himself— nnn– _in check._ ”

“I’m right here,” Cop settles next to Miami, who draws him into an ardent kiss. Envy flares before it’s eclipsed by lust. You want to hear Cop make those noises again, and you want to be the one eliciting them. Miami pulls away and some silent exchange occurs between the three of them, before you have a chance to ask the terms of the deal.

Cop gets up and maneuvers himself, unzips his uniform’s navy blue trousers, presents you with his massive cock and balls and… asks if you’re okay.

Miami snaps, bucks his hips impatiently. “Wh-what the fuck– why– what are you waiting for? You’re a Rick. You want to fuck her face, use her mouth, _dominate_ her.”

Cop moans, a mix of lust and frustration. He strokes his shaft, the head is red and plush and shiny. As you watch a bead of precum dribbles out; you’d guess he hasn’t allowed himself to cum yet amidst all of this debauchery. You lean forward, sucking his heavy balls in your mouth one at a time, enjoying their weight and how low they hang.

“L-look at her, she loves it. Wet and willing. She’ll keep licking your balls if that’s the only thing you give her. Look at that desperate slut.”

“Shut up, I-I-I know–”

“So do it.” Demon rasps, releasing his hold on your hair, “force your dick down her throat, make her choke on it.” His voice mellows to something sweet and seductive. “Why deny your nature? Take what you want.”

You gaze up at Cop, meeting his eyes, wanton and pouting as Miami and Demon resume a faster pace.

He breaks. “ _Fuck_. Open– s-suck my dick, slut.” The term sounds unsure coming from him, he says it like he still has reservations, like he’s worried about letting go.

You obey anyway, taking his huge length between your lips. Just as big as every other Rick, his girth flattens your tongue the same way, makes you salivate, makes your jaw sore. Whatever hesitation he harbored dissipates in the moment he touches the back of your throat and you swallow around him.

“Ohhhh _fffu_ … “ He cups your jaw in one hand, his other plays in your hair, caressing more than pulling, and he tells you how soft it is, how good you feel. He pulls out, lets you lick up and down his cock, worship his balls, but the impatience infects him and he thrusts back in.

“Nnnhh do that.. Do it again baby, fuck you’re sexy.” He fucks the wet heat of your mouth, his breath ragged, punctuated by low, needy sounds. 

You’re secure between these incarnations of lust, even as they stroke into you, slick and hard, spreading you open for their amusement. Demon is rougher, driving into you, his balls swinging heavily and slapping against you. His mouth is at your neck when he starts to cum, and he bites into the tender flesh with a carnal growl, his teeth sharp enough to break the skin.

The sting is immediate, the pain brings you brief clarity and you clench around both of them. He licks the wound he’s made, you smell blood– then need eclipses rational thought again, past pain and pleasure, you need release and you sob around Cop’s shaft pleading with tears in your eyes.

Miami reaches one hand down between your bodies and finds your clit, Demon grips your wrists with enormous strength, grinding the bones together, daring you to writhe and resist. Cop pulls out, stroking himself with the head of his cock on your tongue.

You didn’t think you could cum again, not like this, but Miami always gets what he wants from you. He only has to press his thumb there to unmake you. Pure searing joy tears through you, renders you incoherent and you wail, your mind goes sublimely blank as you fall apart. The only word you can manage is Rick, but Cop wrenches your head back, warns you he’s cumming, _keep your mouth open, slut_ and this time he says it with brusque conviction. _Don’t swallow, let me– I-I-I wanna see it on your tongue first–_

Miami echoes him, swearing a blue streak, praise with a veneer of filth. He circles his thumb on your clit, drawing out your climax until it’s unbearable; you feel a new gush of wetness between your legs, that tipping point of overstimulation you reach only rarely and the three of them are relentless. Raw and aching and oversensitized you ride them, let them fill you and fuck you and possess you until you overflow, and there’s nothing left of yourself.

Demon extricates himself first, pulling out and letting you feel his seed leaking from you. Cop tucks himself away, wipes some of his cum off your chin and offers you his fingers to lick. Miami lifts you off of him and lays you on the couch. There are a few Ricks waiting around, looking expectant, but he covers you with a blanket by way of declaring it’s time for a break (he also wants to be the last, the one you’ll remember). You lie there for a few minutes, sore and blissful, too exhausted to move. Many of the Ricks have paired off, wandered away, or portaled out. The party is winding down.

Miami comes back with your Rick, they’re chatting about the Citadel’s overreach regarding portal gun use and ownership. You sit up and accept the glass of champagne Miami offers you. Too sweet, you tell him. Your Rick rolls his eyes and hands you his flask. Whiskey. Much better. It burns the tacky, salty bitterness out of your mouth.

“Rick,” you croak. “Was there something in the punch? Did you dose them all with something?” It wasn’t just you going wild, there were Ricks defiling every surface of your house.

“Hmm? Wh-what was that? How about a ‘thank you’?”

“My couch is destroyed.”

“Oh, that’s your complaint? W-w-we’ll put a tarp down next time.” He tells you to scoot over, flops down next to you, then goes to turn on the TV, but is confronted with–

“What the shit! Doofus Rick! How long have you been standing there? Jesus. Holy hell, have you been standing there the whole time with your dick in your hand? Go home. Show’s over.”

The lonely Rick you’d seen earlier drinking milk looks crestfallen. “I-I-I just thought–”

“Thought you could get in on the action too? Give it up.”

Miami, Priest, Cop, Demon, and some of the others are still standing around too, drinking, joking. The exchange gets their attention.

Doofus Rick agrees, miserably. “Sorry, guys. I’ll go…”

It’s too much, watching him struggle and fumble. He seems kind, so you speak up. “Wait. Here. Come here.” His eyes widen, hopeful, and he approaches.

Your Rick pulls a gun on him. “Ah– I don’t think so, pal. Knees.” He flips the safety off, an audible click. “You fucking heard me. G-eeugh– get on your damn knees and lick her cunt. Uh huh.” He gestures to you, he doesn’t care if you’re too sensitive. You discard the blanket and lean back, opening your legs.

“Thaaaaat’s it. Get in there and eat– clean up all that cum. Ass too, bet that’s your favorite part, right?”

Doofus Rick whimpers, blushing. When he kneels, he takes his cock in his hand, whispering thank you like a prayer. He closes his eyes, kisses your cunt, tilts your hips and swirls his tongue around your asshole.

You don’t think you can cum again. You can’t. But he keeps going. Some of the Ricks lose interest, turn on Ball Fondlers. Doofus slips a finger in you, curling it and hitting the perfect spot. And in your depleted, yielding state you crest, riding the swell of pleasure and crashing down. You cum, gasping as you ride his face, squeezing his head between your thighs. He jerks in surprise, but can’t move; when you relax he pulls away, mouth and chin soaked and shiny with your juices.

Your Rick belches, having grown bored, then regained interest over the course of Doofus Rick’s performance. “Oh my _god_ , did you just– y-you squirted in his face!”

Panting, spent, it takes all your remaining energy to maneuver your legs closed and curl up on your side. There’s not enough to respond, and plus, he’s just cackling, calling other Ricks over and telling them the hilarious turn of events. Doofus Rick doesn’t look particularly upset about it, happy to be included for once.

The last of the Ricks leave soon afterward, and finally you’re alone again, save for your Rick.

“What are you still doing here?” You mumble, kicking your legs over his lap. Normally that move would earn you a shove at the very least. Normally he doesn’t stick around for long.

He doesn’t react. “Finishing this episode.” He swigs his beer. “You need a shower.”

You don’t move. You can’t, and you tell him this and he shushes you, don’t talk over Atilla Starwar’s rousing monologue. But when it’s over he picks you up, grumbling that it’s bad for his old man back, and that you drink liquor and cum like you’ve got a hollow leg. He carries you to the bathroom, strips you the rest of the way, strips naked himself and joins you in the shower and you think it’s all going well, curiosity sated, that was fun but how about not doing it again for at least a year, until he speaks up.

“Soooooo, I’m thinking about hosting a mahjong tournament next weekend for a few buddies, probably gonna use your basement, which means you should clear out all that junk you never use. Ne-eeugh- need space to set up the table.”

There must be something wrong with you. Some part of your brain wired to seize on the worst possible decision and pursue it. To find one good thing you like and run it into the ground. You know you can say ‘no’, but you won’t. He chuckles when you agree too quickly. “W– shit. Maybe you really are addicted.”


	51. Vietnam vet Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Like many people, I have a hc that Rick served in the military during the Vietnam War. Here’s my take on it.))

Snooping in Rick’s room almost always yields treasures. Most of the time finding some old band photo, or a stockpile of floppy disks with different Ricks’ dimension numbers on them (blackmail material, meticulously catalogued), is enough to satisfy your curiosity. You have the sense not to ask him about the things you’ve come across. He probably knows you’ve been in his room anyway, but as long as you don’t press him for anything else, you’re safe.

Many of the discoveries test your resolve– the bigger the discovery, the bigger the test. Keeping your mouth shut about a piece of macaroni art signed ‘Beth’ had been a soul-rending struggle.

This one is worse.

You slip into his room, opening the door only as wide as you need– it creaks past a certain point– and padding in sock-clad feet across the carpet. _Vigilance_ , you counsel yourself. This could be the time he decides to play a prank on you, or test some new trap he devised.

‘Expendable in most aspects,’ was the phrase he had used once, before pushing you to your knees and inviting you to demonstrate any particular talents that made you worthwhile.

There is a drab green box under his cot– the same green as his wool blanket, or at least trying to be. Just another facet of the clutter. You’ve plumbed all the promising spots in previous visits.

It probably won’t be anything, but you get down and pull it out anyway. The yellow stenciled lettering on the side is faded. 200 CARTRIDGES. 7.62 MM. Tape and scribbles cover the rest. It’s spotted all over with old rust. When you figure out the mechanism to flip the top open, the hinge squeaks horribly and you freeze, fearing you’ve finally been caught.

Nope. You’re fine. Not much in this can anyway. You shuffle through its contents. A rack of military ribbons, some spent ammunition casings, a long knife with ‘KA-BAR’ and ‘USMC’ stamped into the leather sheath, some name tapes embroidered with ‘Sanchez’, and a few others with different names: Rawley, West, Merritt. In the layer below, at the bottom of the can, there is a slim box embossed with silver lettering, and a bundle of photographs and letters.

The room is still and silent, as if it’s telling you that you’re out of place. You should leave, but the fascination is more powerful. The draw of his personality is too great, and the mindless entertainment of sex too alluring. Rick denies you so much of himself, and yet you always return. He makes no promises.

You’ve never taken anything from his room before. You go through the pictures first, trying to identify him in each one, but he’s in almost none of them.

Most are candid shots of other people. No notes on the back, no dates or names. In one, you recognize him from his smile; there’s a cigarette between his teeth, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his helmet jauntily askew. His youth puts you off the most, and you’ve only seen him smile like that for cheesy selfies, or when he wins at Quantum Skee-ball at Blips and Chitz.

Before approaching the letters you open the slim box and find inside another award— you wouldn’t know what it was without the accompanying wallet size portrait photo of a bulldog. On the back in unfamiliar handwriting: Juve, Purple Heart, 1968. You close the box and put it back, feeling unsettled. Reminders of his vast prior experiences— when he shouts ‘hah! Suck it, muthafuckaaaa I know more than you!’ after winning at Trivial Pursuit, it’s not just him being a genius, it’s everywhere he’s been, everything he’s done, the ease with which he moves in the multiverse.

It might be disappointing to find out that at one point he was close to normal.

The letters are last. You unfold some of them and start to read fragments.

_…In my free time (after cleaning rifles, cranking, etc.) I designed a more efficient water filtration system from 550 cord (paracord), discarded ammo casings and duct tape I tactically acquired from Supply. LT rejected it out of hand. I remember exactly what he said but it’s not worth repeating. Then Walt got overheard saying the LT should go suck-start a shotgun and that is how the whole platoon ends up with restricted libo…_

_…I’m not PVT Sanchez anymore. I’m PFC! …Yeah, it doesn’t impress me either. Best part is that I get a slightly bigger allowance to buy cigarettes and porno mags. Nothing else has changed. So pretty much like getting older (writes the 19 year old)…_

_… Last night we flew in while it was dark. I didn’t realize it was dark until we walked out the back of the c-130 because they packed us in there like sardines, with all our gear and shit. And let me tell you, it did not smell great…_

_…It’s 96 degrees here and Gibbons is obsessed with himself. I swear that guy cleans his rifle just so he can look at himself in it. Let me give you a list of everyone in my platoon I can’t fucking stand:_  
-the LT  
-Sergeant P.  
-everyone except Joe and Walter and King… 

_…I found out I won’t be a Huey gunner like I thought, I’ll be boots on the ground with Kilo 3/4. Funny how they screw you like that, but I guess I should’ve known. The senior enlisted told me some congressman’s son got the spot assignment first, which is bullshit…_

They are nothing, and they are tantalizing. Snippets of daily life written on lined paper, in black ink, and blocky, uniform penmanship. No psychological revelations. No grand statements explaining why Rick is Rick. No envelopes or dates, even, no _‘Dear So-and-so’._

It occurs to you again, idly: you’ve never taken any prizes from your explorations of his room before. You tuck the letters and pictures into the pocket of your sweatshirt without feeling particularly clandestine. You leave with a part of him, thinking it will be enough.

**

Asking Rick about what you found is a singularly terrible idea, which is why it takes you two months to get around to it. You stare out the passenger side window of his ship, at the reflection of your face superimposed on the infinite black outside. Humans will survive for a minute and a half in space, he’s told you, but you’ll be unconscious after fifteen seconds, and don’t hold your breath, otherwise you’ll explode. If you pass out and die, at which point is the true death? You’d asked him that, tipsy and star-struck, within the first few weeks of meeting him. The second or third time he’d whisked you away to space, where his version of a drugstore errand was your adventure of a lifetime.

“Rick?”

He grunts. That’s the best invitation to continue you’re likely to get.

“That time when you taught me to shoot, you said you learned when you were in the military. Right?”

“No.”

“Where did you learn?”

He doesn’t reply. He banks hard to avoid some space debris, his little garbage ship rattling alarmingly. It’s always held together, even when it feels like it’s going to shake your teeth loose; you hold onto the dashboard anyway.

“Is Uncle Sam different than the military?”

“You know, pestering me with questions– is that why you wanted to come on– on a space errand with me? So you could interrogate me?”

You decide to take a gamble, and just admit: “Rick, I found some stuff, in a box under your bed.”

He snorts. “L-look at youuuu. Fuckin– Ricky Recon over here.”

“Rick Recon? Was that your nickname?”

“What? No, th-that’s a– nevermind. Y-y-you know that seat has a— it can be ejected. You want me to jettison you into the cold vacuum of space? Yeah, didn’t think so. Knock it off with the fucking questions.”

Fine. You take a different tack. “You were a soldier in Vietnam.”

His jaw twitches.

“I looked up what that medal was for. The Purple Heart, for being injured in combat.”

And he snaps. “You think I wouldn’t know that you’ve been p–nosing around, sneaking around in my room? You think I just left stuff out like a-a-an idiot? You think all that shit you found was _real?_ ”

You take a beer from the case in the backseat and open it, drinking to give yourself time to think, but the shock of being confronted muddles all attempts at logic. Besides, there’s only one thing you really want to know. “So…am I right? Were you? Or not?”

“Wha-eeurgh– what do you want from me? My fucking life story?”

If only.

He snatches the beer from your hand and drinks it down in one go. It sloshes down his chin, his neck, his shirt. He throws the empty on the floor (on your side) and belches. More spittle, which he doesn’t wipe away.

“The fuck are you staring at?” He snarls. Rick at his worst is aware of how bitter and cruel he can be, and how effectively he can wield them. He enjoys it.

“Nothing, Rick—“

_“Nothing.”_ He grabs a fistful of your hair. “Y-y-y-you’re a stupid– You like what you see, right?”

“Yes.” Your eyes water; he’s pulling your hair too hard. He forces you to face him, to be confronted with the reality of his age– the frown lines, the sour smell of alcohol on his breath. You like that he’s old and gaunt and acerbic and crass. You see, when he’s manic-drunk like this, how he can be nothing more than careless and destructive; his eyes are bright, his chin shiny with drool, all lit grotesquely in starlight and the glow of the dashboard instruments.

You lick your lips, warm with that first flush of desire, and glance away. He demands your attention back.

“Look at me, you dumb fucking slut. Wh-what m— the only thing you need to know is how I like having my dick sucked.” He releases you, only to undo his pants and pull out his erect cock. You stopped wearing your seatbelt in his ship a long time ago; you have no hesitation as you lean over the center console and take him in your mouth.

His voice is gruff, the filthy encouragement he groans to you a familiar comfort even with his hand on the back of your head. His girth forces your tongue flat, he pushes you down further and holds you there; you gag and clutch at his leg. It’s too much and still he starts to fuck your face, driving with one hand, except when he lets go of the wheel completely to drink. Tears leak from your eyes, your nose runs a bit, you salivate savoring the heat and subtle salt and musk of his skin.

“Oh, _ffuuck_ –” he moans as his hips buck, swears a blue streak, no indulgent praise. He uses you roughly, unheeding, reminds you that what you’re good for is having your mouth full of his cock, and he doesn’t care that you’re crying. _Go ahead and– fucking– choke on it, slut, deeper, feel my balls on your chin. I-I-I’m– I’ll tell you when to stop._

He knows, without checking, that you’re wet; he growls that you are, that you’re a desperate slut, and he says it with such certainty, you give over to the burst of arousal and the bliss of thinking about nothing else except submitting to him. In moments like this, you know your place in his world. You have nothing to prove. You swallow around his cock as he cums down your throat, revel in the sounds he makes, the way his hand tightens in your hair and his whole wiry body tenses and releases.

The intimacy he allows is fleeting and physical. When he stills, sated, he shoves you away, and then you have nothing— no answers, no closeness.

Choose one and he rebels, redirecting you with the lowest effort distraction on his part.

Instead of wiping your eyes and cleaning your face, you reach into the backseat again, take two beers. He accepts his silently, and you draw your knees to your chest, staring out the window again and drinking to wash down the bitter taste.

**

There is a distance between you and Rick. He put it there. He keeps you in asynchronous orbit, bound to him but offset. He is the center of your existence, yet you are not the center of his. You never have to invite him over (he does that himself), or engage in pleasantries. If he wants sex it’s straight to fucking. If he wants to talk he’ll launch right into the subject. No schedule, no planning, no lingering. You might wait for him, but he’ll never wait for you.

Running around with him warps your sense of normal. You know it does, and yet you still feel a pathetic surge of joy when you find him, late one afternoon, lazing on your backyard deck. How many weeks since you last saw him?

You go back inside, retrieve alcohol for both of you. You sit with him for hours, drinking and listening to him ramble. You keep wondering when he’s going to command you to get up, bend over, slut, he’s gonna fuck you now.

He takes out a boomerang knife and throws it at the trunk of the old chestnut tree. The knife thunks, then unsticks itself and zooms back. Again, and again. You watch the sun go down. Rick catches the knife by the blade only once, and doesn’t seem to notice that his hand is bleeding.

At some point you stumble inside your house, not for a bandaid, but because you remembered something.

You place the pilfered bundle of letters and photos on the grimy glass table.

He looks at you with a strange expression, opens his mouth– but whatever he was about to say is obscured by a disgusting belch.

You ask him if he’s going to erase your memory or something now that you know so much about him. He perks up, like that’s a great idea, pats down his lab coat, but says he left the memory gun in his bunker.

Keep drinking, to avoid asking if he really has a memory-erasing gun.

Something about the night makes Rick change.

He brings the whiskey bottle to his lips, tilts his head back and drinks. His Adam’s apple bobs; you eye the sharp line of his jaw and the liquid running down his chin. He drains it, sucking down the last of the liquor, and licks the side of the bottle before tossing it over his shoulder. It hits the brick wall of your house and shatters.

You copy him. It’s the only way.

“Fu-eeugh-uucking power move right there.” His eyes gleam; you’re reminded that beneath the oldness and drinking problem and all his Issues, he is brilliant and deranged.

The alcohol makes you woozy, and lends any fleeting thought undue depth. Rick smirks at you, goading and dangerous, and it’s easy to forget that he’s probably drunker than you are. You mention, slurring, that you researched the name on his medal that you found–

“Not mine,” he corrects you. “And I wasn’t a soldier. Soldiers are in the Army. I was in the Marines.” He clears his throat. “Not that it matters.”

He lets that settle, a muting shroud over the sounds of crickets chirping and the occasional car driving by.

You have one chance to ask a question that won’t enrage him. Who were the letters meant for? Were they ever sent? Why would he keep all of this? It would be easier to move over, sit on his lap and kiss him. You won’t. You stay still and let the quiet suspend you.

When he speaks again, some time later, he startles you. You alternate between watching the sky and watching him, the yellow light emanating from inside the house casting his features in a stark profile. His voice mellows to dispassionate, his rhythms slower and softer, as if in a trance. Nebulous, it lulls you near to sleep, it can’t be real. He must have dosed you with something. Entirely possible. How can anything be normal with Rick when even your memories are not your own?

He tells you stories of people in the letters. He tells you who was behind the camera, and what was in the background of the pictures. And he reads to you, one you must have missed because you don’t remember it: 

_Anyway, it’s cold here some days. I feel what you feel. Your pulse quickens. You exhale and exhale and never quite inhale because you’ve become aware of the hands which hold you together. They keep you from crumbling and squeeze your chest too tight._

_The thrill of being shot at is nothing special. It’s base. And cheap. ~~It’s~~ There’s nothing glorious about it, the chaos and yelling and faceplanting in the dirt. One guy started crying the other day while he was shaving and Sgt p told him to suck that shit up with a straw, and I’m inclined to agree._

_The one thing I can’t quite describe is the grinding mundanity. It was like that in the jungle, and it’s the same back here. I did not anticipate just how restless I would be. I thought I would feel happy coming home. Anyway, I’m rotating back in a couple days._

_I’ll write more tomorrow._

_-Rick_

Satisfied curiosity is not worth painful answers to painful questions. What he doesn’t want you to know, and would drug you to keep secret. And what you suspect he’s asked himself: why him, and not me? In another universe, had he run left instead of right, would that medal be his? Could he have known, at the time, that in other dimensions he did, and that his lifetimes would unfold differently.

He crumples up the old letter, as if he’s going to toss it over his shoulder like he had with the empty bottle. Then he pauses. His mouth thins, he takes a drink with mechanical practice.

He’s gone through this routine before. He has lit a fire, stood on a precipice, let the tide lap at his feet. Fifty years of small decisions. He smooths out the paper.


	52. DWC: Rick hearing and then running for the ice cream truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Rick hearing and then running for the ice cream truck.

“Ohhh fuck, Rick, yes…” You lift your hips to meet his deep, unrelenting strokes, reveling in the way his thick cock splits you open.

“Nnnnhh _yeah_ , y-you– my good little slut, you like that? Like m– you like this fat dick in your pussy. God _damn_ you’re gorgeous taking my dick.”

You give a helpless whimper and snake a hand down your body, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles. His hand comes to your jaw, his long fingers splay and dig into your cheeks and neck. Firm, not quite painful. Not yet. Enough to remind you that he owns your pleasure, and what he deigns to give you, he can wrench away at his whim.

He bends his head as if to kiss you, arching his slim body over yours and the angle lets him penetrate even deeper. You gasp at the sensation, pleading his name, you’re so close–

He groans feeling you– _you’re so fucking tight and_ \-- looks down the length of your body, watching the massive girth of his cock spread your pussy open. All pretty and pink and perfect. All for him.

_“Rick…”_

He bites his lip, and stills. Then he tilts his head, like a dog pricking up its ears hearing something distant.

“Rick?” You clench around him, you’re so close, your entire body vibrating with unmet pleasure. “Rick, _please._ ” You whine, clawing at his arm.

“No, just– shut up. Shut your trap for one second.” He claps a hand over your mouth.

“Mmph!” There is a faint, oddly familiar jingle.

“Shit! I-I-I-I gotta go! Come on!” He pulls out with exactly zero fanfare, leaving you empty and aching.

_“What?”_ You start to sit up, but he grabs your arm and pulls you off the bed. “What– Rick what the hell? What are you doing?”

“Get dressed, hurry!” His eyes are wide, his voice sounds slightly panicked. “C’mon! Pants! Let’s go! Chop chop! It’s gonna me-eeugh- elt.”

_Wait, what?_

He scrambles around the room looking for clothing, his erect cock bobbing. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. The mood is ruined, you’re just curious now. “Rick, what’s going to melt?”

“Ice cream, babyyyy! Muthafuckin ice cream sandwiches o-or push up– got your ice pops! It’s the ice cream truck, put on your slurpin face and COME ON!”


	53. DWC:  Rick, how do I look? Be honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Rick, how do I look? Be honest.

ou do a spin in your dress. “Rick, how do I look? Be honest.”

He frowns at that. “You are too familiar, Madame.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. Mr. Sanchez. Pray, uh, good… sir. Do I tickle your fancy?” You wince. That did not sound right.

One side of Rick’s unibrow quirks up. “You are tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

 _“What?”_ He had told you to ask his opinion of your appearance. Just so he could criticize it, apparently. Ass.

His lips press into a thin line. “You fucking heard me.”

Your mouth drops open. _Incredible._ “Oh, so you can break character but I have to be miss prim and proper eighteenth century? _Really?_ ”

He moves on you swiftly, grabbing you by your waist and shoulder and turning you around, forcing you to bend over the bed.

“Rick!” You squeal. “I’m supposed to be a lady of good standing! What the hell!”

“Mhmm. Thaaaaat’s right, baby. Y-y-you just keep on pretending you aren’t a slut for a fat cock. Nnnhf– fuck– you’re so damn sexy…” He breaks off with a lusty groan, grinding his hips against yours; he makes sure you feel the hard line of his erection against your ass, even through all the layers of clothing. “But, uh, all I really want is to hear you scream like you’ve never had a dick in your ass before.”


	54. Learn to fly Rick's ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ask Rick to teach you how to fly his ship.

“Pitch, yaw, and roll. Jesus, y-y-you– am I really gonna have to repeat myself again?” He lets loose a foul belch, then snaps at you for getting distracted by him scratching his nuts. “Wh-what did I tell you? Stay low. Last thing we want is the FAA on our ass and I am not on good terms with them.”

You glare at him, trying to stay calmer than he is and failing. Your grip on the yoke is white-knuckled, trying to keep the ship as steady as possible while patchwork suburbia passes in a rush below. “Yes, I need to you tell me again, because you sprayed a firehose of aviation textbook knowledge at me as soon as I buckled my seatbelt.”

“And you ignored my first instruction which is that seatbelts are for suckers! That thing’s not gonna save you if you crash in this deathtrap! You think this ship– the only crash testing it’s had is when I taught Morty how to drive in it. I made it myself out of shit I found in the garage, the engine housings are garbage cans I stole from the neighbors!”

You twist around in your seat (there are no rear-view or side mirrors) and and see through the back window that, indeed, there are two large garbage cans affixed by precarious tubing to the rear of the ship. Somehow that had never registered before. You look back at the dashboard, at the instrument panels and dials and switches you’ve stared at for months from the passenger seat, and never touched.

“So? Morty can’t be around to help you all the time.” You’re pushing your luck, you know. Persisting in an argument with Rick can only end in a few ways.

“L-l-look, I agreed– I wanted _Morty_ to learn how to fly this thing because it meant he could do errands for me. I don’t need two people doing errands for me, and besides, if you’re driving you can’t give me road head. Should’ve shut this down the first time you asked, bu-eeugh-uuut you wore me down, I guess.” He rolls his eyes, uncaps his flask and drinks.

“I sucked your dick twelve times in one day! Eight of those times during my breaks at work!” You touch your jaw gingerly, recalling how you’d collapsed at the end of the day with an icepack and a packet of lozenges; Rick had laughed at you, and, seeming to take pity, pressed a glass of whiskey into your hand. _Trust me, this’ll help. We’ve all been there….get your strength back and we can go for a record._

As if reading your mind, he smirks at you, the effect only slightly undercut by the fact that there’s saliva running down his chin which he can’t be bothered to wipe off. “Never did beat that record.”

“Rick, I’m _flying._ ”

“No, the autopilot is flying. That baby could single-handedly defeat the Gromflomite Air Force while I took a nap in the backseat. Let go.” He’s already adjusting his seat all the way back to make room for you at his feet.

You start to protest, what about when he’s drunk, or the autopilot isn’t working, or–

“ _Let go._ It’ll be fine.”

At your hesitation, his eyes narrow, he scowls. “D-d-do I have to spell it out for you? Get the fuck over here and suck my dick, slut. You’ll learn better after you relax.”

You unclench your hands. The ship about which you had once exclaimed ‘what a piece of junk!’ stays perfectly level, no rattling or wobbling. Relief washes over you as you obey, knowing he’s right, and nascent desire blooms with it as you unbuckle your seatbelt, slide over the center console and take your place on your knees before him.


	55. In the Bedside Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anal sex instruction video starring you and Rick

“Good evening. I’m Rick Sanchez of dimension 9-LMS-TZ. We interrupt your nightly Citadel News broadcast with this important P—eeugh—ublic Service Announcement.” The newscaster Rick shuffles papers solemnly before the picture cuts to your Rick.

_“Okaaaaay!”_ His voice coming from the TV speakers echoes with a tinny quality. He peers into the camera, his face filling the whole screen, then backs up, revealing the rest of the room. And is that–? _Oh no._

Rick’s whole family— Morty, Summer, Beth, and Jerry– had gathered on the couch expecting to watch their ‘vacation highlights’ video.

They look at you and Rick; you shift awkwardly, Rick does a huge ‘idgaf’ stretch, and belches, not trying to conceal the interdimensional cable remote in his hand.

They turn back to the screen in time to see the graphic that was edited in: ‘In the Bedside Mirror’.

A profound dread seizes you, worse than the time he used you as bait to provoke a Traflorkian stampede because he was too lazy to come up with something safer, and too much of a jerk to explain to you beforehand what his plan was.

In addition to the title, there’s a close-up of a butthole (probably yours) and a voiceover intones, _“Today, on How They Do It. Anal sex!”_ Unobtrusive yet upbeat music plays in the background, the same as in the other ‘How They Do It’ segments on things like Plumbuses.

You recognize the voice as Rick’s. Morty does too, emitting a distressed noise.

“Hey!” Jerry says. “This isn’t our vacation video!”

The graphic fades, returning to the bedroom scene of you and Rick. You, naked on the bed, Rick also naked, with a massive boner, both of you reflected infinitely by the mirrors covering the walls and ceiling of the bedroom. Rick (standing next to you) surreptitiously turns up the volume on the TV to drown out the sounds of his family’s horrified reactions.

_“Welcome, everyone! I’m Ri-eeeurgh-ick Sanchez, and this is my lovely assistant–”_ your name is obscured by another burp. _“Everyone has a butthole. Some sluts, like th– like my companion here, reaaaaallly enjoy sticking things up there. I know a lot of Ricks who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to performing safe anal sex._

_“So come along, join us, on another adventure In the Bedside Mirror!”_ He holds out his hand to the camera, which the mirrors show is attached to a floating robot. Somehow it knows to follow him.

“Oh my _god_ , dad,” Beth covers her face in shame. Jerry leans closer, holding up his thumb and forefinger as if trying determine how he personally measures up to his father-in-law.

For your part, you’re just as humiliated; you blush bright red and steadfastly avoid eye contact with everyone except Rick and the TV. You fidget, standing there next to him, and he smirks, one side of his unibrow lifting. As if to say, _yeahhhh I know you’re getting off on this, slut._ He knows you’re wet, knows you like it, and that smile promises that if you endure this, he’ll reward you.

_“There are a few things you’ll need in order to make your anal experience nice and smooth. Number one is lube! Don’t be stingy here, don’t hold back! For a-a-a nice, tight asshole, like the one I’m about to get wayyyyy up inside of, you’re gonna need a looooooot of lube. Personally I keep a 55 gallon drum of the high viscosity water-based stuff in my workshop–”_

“Gross! Grandpa, you told me that was special motor oil!” Summer cries.

“Awww jeez, are we really just gonna sit here a-a-and watch Grandpa Rick have sex with his girlfriend? Why are we not turning this off?”

“Go, kids,” Beth shoos them out of the room. “Just go.”

_“–this little slut here can’t get enough of my dick in her ass.”_ The Rick on-screen continues. _“Bu-eeugh-t. Heh. Butt. But! You gotta start small! C-can’t go shoving a monster dick like mine in a hole like that without preparation. Let me introduce you all to Mr. Squishy. This is a silicone butt plug._

_“Before even using the plug– and you’re gonna– better start out small there, too– make sure your partner is *ahem* cleaned out. They can do that themselves, it’s not a big deal. Moving on! Start with a finger, and some lube. Nice and slow, like she’s doing now. Mmm yeah that’s good, baby, you’re so fuckin sexy. L-look– look at her face, all smiling.”_

The Rick in the video drizzles more lube, the you in the video adds another finger and damn that camera is really up close. Rick by your side tilts your head to kiss your neck, at the same time grinding his clothed erection against the swell of your ass. “K-keep watching, slut,” he rasps, low enough for only you to hear. “I-I-I-I want you to see exactly what expression you make when– when I get that first inch in–”

Jerry makes to escape after the kids, but Rick barks at him not to go anywhere. Beth, he dismisses with a syrupy ‘sorry you had to see that, sweetie!’

_“Great! Your partner should be getting warmed up by now, pussy wet, dick hard, what have you.”_ He holds up a neon purple butt plug, shows it to the camera, then makes you kiss it, before coating it with lube. _“Now what do we always say, baby?”_

_“With enough lube and patience, anything is possible.”_

_“Thaa–eeugh–at’s right. So with that in mind, awaaaaaay we gooo!”_ Rick works the plug in slowly, his free hand on your lower back, steadying you. Once it’s fully inserted, the flared base sitting snugly between your cheeks, Rick gives you yet more time to adjust. He caresses your ass, then repositions and buries his face in your cunt, swirling his tongue over your clit with no real hurry.

However Rick had programmed the camera, it’s going crazy with the zooms and pans, giving the remaining audience a generous view of Rick eating your pussy and you wantonly rocking back onto his face.

The sounds, too, make you squirm, impatient. A spark of arousal courses down your spine and settles low and hot at your core; out of the corner of your eye you see Rick not-very-discreetly adjust his boner.

An obscene squelching noise issues from the TV as Rick removes the plug. _“Remember,”_ he says as he slicks his cock with lube, _“don’t mistreat your asshole or your partner’s. You can’t just lube up and shove in– well I mean you can, but there’s this thing where your butthole just falls out. They’re– no matter how experienced you are, your butthole is not a damn slip-n-slide. Take it–”_ he aligns the thick head of his cock at your entrance and starts to push in. _“Slow.”_

The robo-cam zooms out to show the entire scene: you with your ass in the air, Rick behind you, two spots of color high on his gaunt cheeks, his hair wild. Biting his drool-shiny lower lip in concentration, he’s clearly holding himself back.

On-screen, you reach one hand down between your legs and start rubbing lazy circles on your clit. Face flushed, lips parted, your other hand fisted in the bedsheets. 

You exhale a shaky breath watching yourself; you know _exactly_ how wonderful that feels. The insistent pressure of Rick’s massive cock pushing into you, filling you, and the sting as he breaches that tight ring of muscle.

_“Little slut looooooves my fat dick in her ass, see that? See her playing w– fingering her cunt.”_ He affects a casual, didactic tone, while in contrast you (video and otherwise) are already a sloppy mess. You wish Jerry would ignore Rick and leave already. “At this point, I’ve breached the anal sphincter, that outer ring of muscle.

_“And see, now, she’s adjusted to my size, and I can start to penetrate deeper, but you gotta–”_ He rolls his hips, your screen counterpart gives a helpless, needy moan. _“Gotta relax, baby. Chose this position because of two reasons. One, old Rick likes clappin it from the back. More importantly, there’s this thing called the anorectal muscle, which is further past– inside the anal cavity, past the sphincter. I want all of you watching at home, o-or on the in-flight movie channel, church barbecue, wherever you are, pay close attention here. Mirror what I’m doing, this is crucial.”_

He grips your hips, fucking you with careful, shallow movements, observing your reactions intently. Pausing and slowing when he needs to, with the explanation that this inner muscle is much harder to breach, and he couldn’t just sink his cock in all the way–

But he gets there eventually, fully seated in your ass, noting to audience how goddamn good you feel squeezing his dick. His fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, white knuckles as he struggles to restrain himself .

He pulls out almost all the way, stalls, then pushes back in– _y-y-you keep rubbing your clit, baby, I can see everything in all these mirrors but I– I wanna hear you too_ – and the sound you make is one of pure lust.

Rick groans in response, does it again, testing you, measured and deep. And again, and again, until he builds to a good pace, his narrow hips slapping against your ass and thighs and you gasping your pleasure. Rick by your side slides a hand around your waist and pulls you closer so he can growl obscenities in your ear, how you’re a thirsty slut, getting all nasty as he fucks your ass open, and hearing you whine like that gets his dick hard.

_“Ohhhh fuck, th-that– you’re so tight, baby, so gorgeous taking my cock up your ass. You wanna cum, slut?”_

_“Yes…”_

At this point, he can’t resist; he smacks one cheek, then the other. _“Say it. Tell me.”_

You miss whatever your counterpart says next because Rick’s hand migrates from your waist, to your ass, under your dress. He slips one finger into your panties and draws it along your wet slit, groans a deep, carnal sound and presses the hard line of of his cock to your hip again. 

–and the you on the TV climaxes, coming apart spectacularly. Pleading Rick’s name, over and over, begging him for more, deeper, faster even as you rub your clit and rock back to meet his strokes. TV Rick’s hips snap forward, pounding you, no control left. The robo-cam showcases a shot of his thick length disappearing fully into your ass, his balls swinging heavily and slapping your empty cunt. In the mirror is another angle: the tension in his body, the rise and fall of his narrow bony chest as his breathing grows ragged.

When he cums on-screen, his voice, spilling a string of profanity, makes you weak. You have to lean against him to stay upright and he gives a hoarse laugh, slides one finger into your slick wet cunt, kisses along your jaw. You smell the whiskey on his breath, a warm spicy sweetness you irrevocably associate with him now. You turn your head, and catch the last part of the instructional video. 

Rick pulls out, you flop over on the bed, his cum leaking from your ass.

_“Well, that’s all the time we have, folks! To recap, remember to start small, go slow, and– say it with me, now!– use lube and patience. Prepare your partner sufficiently and they’ll be able to take you even if you’re hung like Shadowfax, Lord of the Mearas. Ain’t that right, baby?”_ He pauses for you to make a weak _unnnfff_ of agreement. _“Boom! Tolkien reference for you right there, aaaaaand you’re welcome._

_“Join us next week for another installment of ‘In the Bedside Mirror’, where you can look forward to a visit from our pal, Miami Rick! He’ll be teaching us a special maneuver from his home state called the Flamingo Sandwich. Peace out my glip-glops!”_

“Can I leave now?” Jerry asks sullenly.

Rick nearly jumps. “Holy shit, Jerry! F– I forgot you existed. Jesus. Uh, yeah. Don’t think– I fucking saw you trying to measure, _Jerry,_ and you don’t come close.”

“Hey, I did not! I’ll have you know I’m very well endowed, how about you ask your daughter–”

“That wasn’t an invitation to argue. Can’t you see I’ve got my-eeugh– my hand up my girlfriend’s skirt, here? Get the fuck out, unless you wanna stick around for the live reenactment of that video. ”


	56. Message in a bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You find a message in a bottle. The note is written in an alien language, and you bring it to Rick to get it translated

If there is one thing you should never do, it is to put Rick on the spot when he doesn’t know something. One of two things will happen:

He will pretend like he knows the answer, usually resulting in him fabricating an absurd web of lies that ends up escaping his control. Or, he will sidestep his own ignorance completely and lash out.

After extracting the scrap of parchment from the bottle you had presented him with, he holds the note up to a blacklight and peers at the bizarre symbols on it, muttering to himself. You stand far back, behind a chalk line he had drawn on the concrete floor of his garage workshop. You were crowding him, he had grumbled, even though all you had done was grab his butt and made him lose his place in his Wiqxha-English Dictionary.

He keeps saying things like ‘huh’ and ‘interesting’ as he flips between squinting at the parchment and the dictionary. When you ask what’s so interesting he ignores you.

When he finally shuts the dictionary and motions you over, it’s hard to contain your excitement.

“What does it say?” You ask, curious to hear what an alien language sounds like. “Can you pronounce it?”

Rick makes big production of clearing his throat, and then utters something that sounds like a lobster being stuffed into a sink disposal. “I’m _not_ saying it again,” he snaps. “Think that gave me a- some kind of polyp. Where’d you find this?”

“Deserted island. Where else? And what the hell were those sounds? Can you teach me?”

“Okay one, that’s a cop out, and two, yes. But we’ll, uh, have to loosen your throat first.” He shoots you a grin, one side of his unibrow quirked up. You want to chew on it, but– no. Don’t let him distract you.

There’s still the matter of what it says, and you press him, asking again. Rarely, in a moment of ignorance, Rick exercises a third option.

He shrugs. “No fucking idea.”

“You don’t know?”

“O-oh you thought I was gonna lie to you and tell you it says ‘suck my dick’?” He pauses to drink, belches, then considers: “actually, yeah, I know me, you know me. I _would_ do that. But in the interest of accuracy– I-I-I mean, just so you know, the species that wrote this doesn’t have dicks, they have these semi-intelligent tentacles that they just extrude from their bodies during times of distress and spray their sperm everywhere. It’s fun! I’ve seen their bachelor parties come to Blips and Chitz, it’s wild.”

He misinterprets your look of disgust. “I know, pre-eeurgh–eeetty sexy, right? Why else would Blips and Chitz have ‘spray’ in their slogan! Solid marketing right there.”

“How well do they clean those booths afterward?” The last time Rick had taken you there, there had been a sticky substance on every seat and surface, and you had gotten stuck to the vinyl, resulting in an embarrassing removal process.

Rick frowns, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“Nevermind,” you say quickly, not wanting to waste your opportunity for questions. “Can you teach me?”

“Yep. How about you get on your knees. Get on down there, good girl.” You trust him, obedient, and he smiles indulgently as if he’s doing you a favor. He undoes his belt buckle, unzips his fly; you bite your lip in anticipation. When he shoves his underwear down and releases his massive cock, the undercurrent of desire in your core rises swiftly and you gaze up at him. 

“So the key to pronouncing all these sounds– open wide, slut. Wider.” He grasps your jaw in one hand, hooking his thumb and index fingers inside your cheeks and pulling. “Mmmhmm, tongue out, wider. That’s it. Y-y-you wanna fit my dick in there, gotta be–”

He stuffs his cock in your mouth, his girth flattens your tongue and you moan around him, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Now try to say something. Say ‘cat’.”

The sound as you gag around his thick shaft is not ‘cat’. Rick gives a hoarse laugh, tells you it feels good, and that was a decent voiced uvular stop. You do it again and he pushes in further, the broad head of his cock touching the back of your throat. “Theeeeere we go.” He stills there for a moment, admiring the way you look, your lips around his cock, your eyes wide and watering.

With his fingers tangled in your hair, he starts to fuck the wet heat of your mouth, slow and deep. Each stroke in hits the back of your throat and makes his balls press against your chin, and the sparse curls at the base of his cock tickle your nose. He has you drooling and moaning, he’s made a glorious mess of you already and you adore him for it.

Keep practicing, he advises you as you make obscene noises. ‘Wiqxha’ translates roughly to ‘people who choke on fat tentacles’, and he’s going to hear you pronounce it correctly before he lets you swallow his load.


	57. DWC: Rick and reader end up on a planet where female orgasms are currency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Rick and reader end up on a planet where female orgasms are currency

“Say it, slut. Say it out loud, let me hear what you want.”

You whine, a humiliating sound that betrays your desperation. It’s not like you haven’t done any of this before. It’s not like Rick hasn’t made you say any of this before. But being on your back, facing him as his thick cock splits your ass open– you’re too exposed. He holds your jaw in his hand.

“Open your eyes and– ” He stills on one particularly deep thrust, depriving you of any friction. “ _Say it._ Look at me and say it.”

The words tumble from your mouth, all unprocessed need and you border on incoherence. “Fuck, Rick, please. Please I love it when you fuck my ass, deeper, please.” You clench around him and he hisses, satisfied.

“Good girl, oh fuck that’s good, you’re so fucking tight–” He touches the vibrator to your clit with just the right pressure, and rolls his hips again, his huge length filling you as the perfect counterpoint. “C’mon baby, that’s it, you’re so close. Cum for me one more time.”

“Oh god…” The competing stimuli drag you over the edge and you sob his name in pleasure. _Rick, please, Rick_ … a mantra. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve pleaded to him today. More, keep going, never less. Never stop, despite his unrelenting use of your body.

He cums with a hoarse groan a moment after you, pats your thigh and pulls out.

_Strange._

_Why is Rick being so nice?_ Eating you out before he fucks you, bringing you water and snacks, except he won’t stop making you cum. How many orgasms has it been, just in the past day? Thirty? You’re a wreck. A trembling mess, thighs quivering. No time to recover since he had initiated the whole sequence last night, over an uncharacteristically romantic and thoughtful dinner. (Not _that_ romantic. He had attempted to cook, set your kitchen on fire, ordered in Chinese food, and drank all the wine before you got home.)

“Are you trying to set some kind of record or something?” You ask after you catch your breath. “Is this a dick measuring contest with other Ricks?”

“Hmm? No, I just need 49.95 to get these sweet-ass rollerblades I saw behind the prize counter at Blips and Chitz.”

You sit up. “49.95 _what_ , Rick?”

He evades the question by taking a long draught from the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

“Rick, what do you need 49.95 of?” You grab his wrist, which is the wrong thing to do.

He lets the bottle fall and it spills on the bed; he doesn’t notice, or care. Any opportunity to assert his superiority, so– he twists out of your grip, reversing it and bending the joint painfully. With wiry strength and unfair speed, he flips you onto your stomach and pins you to the bed. You feel his erection pressing against the swell of your ass. Damn cybernetic implants. He’s already hard again. 

“Y-you wanna keep asking– keep prying with questions, baby? Are you really sure these are questions you want answers to? I’m doing this the best way I can think of short of putting a suction cup over your cunt and dosing you with– wait, you know what? Stay riiiiiiight there.” He grins, his eyes gleaming. “I-I-I can’t promise this won’t hurt, but, you know. I really want those sweet– those kick-ass rollerblades.”


	58. DWC: I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.

“And that’s why the universe is constantly expanding, see? No? You don’t see?” He rolls his eyes, like you’re so impossibly dense that there is no amount of remediation that could help you.

“Alright. Look. Watch h– watch closely. I’m gonna explain this in the simplest way possible, lowest common denominator.” He picks up his flask, drinks from it, and then holds it out. “This is my ship. This–” he grabs a sheet of paper “– is the so-called fabric of space.” 

He starts moving the flask around and over the paper, but what he’s trying to demonstrate eludes you. “Space-time. When my ship crosses the threshold of light speed something ve-eeurgh– veeeery interesting happens at a molecular level…”

It’s not that you don’t enjoy listening to Rick. You let his voice flow over you as he details some of the more esoteric facets of interdimensional space travel. You simply have no impetus to absorb any of the knowledge. It’s not like he’s going to quiz you on it. Your gaze wanders, unfocused, taking in his wild gesticulating with his flask and paper. On to his wrists and unibrow and crazy electrocuted hair. Then lower… whoops.

“Rick, hold on, let me stop you right there.”

His brow furrows at the interruption. _“What.”_

You clear your throat. “I’m… going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”

He blinks and looks down. Although he is wearing a bathrobe, his massive erection protrudes through the flaps.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “You… you _really_ love talking about science, don’t you?”

Gentle ribbing only irritates him more. “Yeah it gets my dick hard, so fuckin what? You wanna suck it or something? Yeahhhh ge-eeugh– get in there, y-you little fucking— you little bitch.”

You slide off your chair to your knees in front of him before he’s finished his sentence.

His low growl gives way to laughter. At how eager you are. How willing. You grasp his cock and lick once, from base to tip. Enjoy the taste of his skin and the heat, and the way he holds your head. One hand on top, one under your chin. You try to brace yourself on his thighs but he won’t allow any resistance; he orders to you grab your elbows behind your back and starts to fuck your mouth in deep, full strokes, loving the sound of his own voice, even if he knows he’s being ridiculous. 

“Fuck yeah, use that– use your tongue, slut. Here, I’m gonna– gonna keep going. Gonna keep expounding on the INFINITE MYSTERIES OF SPACE while you slobber on my monster dick. Ready to get educated?”


	59. DWC up or down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: up or down?

“Up or down?”

Rick crosses his arms. “Both.”

Playing word association games with Rick does not usually lead anywhere productive.

“What? How?”

He tips his flask back, drains it, then belches. “Stand up.”

“Okaaaay.” You shuffle around to the other side of the coffee table and look at him expectantly.

He twirls one finger in the air. “Turn around. Mmm yeah that’s– that’s what I like to see, right there. Bend over– not that much, just put your hands on your knees. Yep. Bend your legs– wow, this is taking some time. Taking a long damn time for you to follow simple fucking instructions. Good thing you have other talents.”

“Rick, can I please just sit down.”

“Nope! You sit down when I tell you, baby. Now. Keep your knees bent. Drop it low. Uh-huh. Down. Now back up. Aaaaand again.”

After doing it a few times you catch on. You bend over further and look at him upside down between your legs. “If you wanted me to twerk you could have just said so.”

He snorts with laughter. “Took you long enough. And I didn’t say you could stop. Keep practicing. When you ge-eeugh-t good enough you’re gonna come over here and do it on my dick. G-go on. Shake that ass, slut.”


	60. DWC: I’m human! Ish. Mostly. Like, maybe- no, you know what. Let’s just go with human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: I’m human! Ish. Mostly. Like, maybe- no, you know what. Let’s just go with human.

You jump when something akin to a pool noodle drapes over your shoulder– except it’s oozing and covered in suction cups. Rick has gone over to the bar to order drinks, and— you’ve been on enough adventures with him to know by now— this is the most vulnerable time for you. The time when you’re alone in some intergalactic dive, no longer gracing the arm of a notorious terrorist/fugitive.

“Oh! Excuse me…” you ease away from the intruding limb. It wiggles after you, and you suspect, with mild horror, that it can smell you, somehow. It settles around both your shoulders and hugs a little tighter.

When the creature speaks, it sounds like it’s blowing bubbles in milk. “Hey what’s the matter, I’m human! Ish. Mostly. Like, maybe- no, you know what. Let’s just go with human.”

You frown, looking the the thing up and down. “Which… parts, exactly?”

“Just the parts needed for mammalian intercourse, _mdeeqwel_ —"

“Hey what the fuck did you call her?”

Oh thank god. Rick is back, with drinks, though when he reads the situation, he downs both of them so his hands are free. (Empty glasses get tossed behind him.) The alien starts to attempt an excuse, something about you wearing a t-shirt and not having the ‘don’t hit on me badge’, but Rick stares it down.

“Uh huh. Yeah. Walk away, asshole.” Rick shakes his head, glaring as the thing… well, there’s no good word for the way it moves. All wet and squelchy, like rolling through pudding on suction cups, and it leaves a trail of slime. 

“Those fucking turd munchers… damn. Alright, look, if you were into that thing, sorry for cooch-blocking you, but if you weren’t– just so you know for next time, anything with a prime number of tentacles that’s over 23 is bad news. I’d recommend staying faaaaar away, unless you’re okay with smelling like barbecue sauce and maybe becoming a living host for a clutch of eggs. You wanna be a walking caviar dish? No? Didn’t think so. And by the way, my nickname among the space squid community isn’t ‘the deep sea fisherman’ for nothing. Yeeeep. They call me Moby Rick. And I’ll tell you why—“

You have to interrupt him before he goes on an even longer tangent. “Rick where are we? I thought you said we were going to Blips and Chitz.”

“Oh shit I must’ve put the coordinates in backwards. Or… something.”

“That sign over the door says ‘Whips and Tits’. Is this an intergalactic sex club? Rick.” Except… you hear beeps and one-ups coming from the floor above, muffled. Arcade sounds. It takes a moment of zoning out at a quad-mammaried creature for everything to click. “Is there— _are we in a secret sex dungeon underneath Blips and Chitz?!”_

Rick hands you an air tank and scuba mask, produced from a pocket deep within his lab coat. “If you’re in, you’ll probably need this.”

You accept it, squaring your slime-covered shoulders. “Could I at least get a drink first?”


	61. The hottest fic I've ever written

Rick glowered at you, his dour expression promising a dark purpose. “That’s enough. No more arguing. Get on your knees, slut.”

You eagerly obeyed. When he freed his burgeoning erection from the confines of his pants, you almost did a double-take. Oh my god…

Your eyes went wide at the sight of his large solid manroot and low-hanging yam bag, all springing proudly from a bed of sparse curls, as if announcing to the multiverse: ‘I am Rick Sanchez’s penis and so forth! Worship me with all your being!’ If his package were a larder he would be well-stocked come winter. You couldn’t wait to wrap your lips around it and you sensed moist lust pooling in your feminine grotto.

You seized his turgid dong and began jacking it with all your might. You licked all up and down Rick’s gargantuan weiner, savoring the taste of it like an orphan with a sodium deficiency. Rick being Rick, he always wanted more, so he deployed a bodice-ripping robot that sliced through all your clothes, leaving your humongous boobs exposed to the air.

He commanded you to pleasure yourself while he drilled into your piehole like a pumpjack in an oil well. One finger exploring your love tunnel was not enough, so you added another, wantonly plunging in and out of your secret fur cave in pale mimicry of his movements above.

You gave a sensual bellow as you swallowed his glorious meaty obelisk and felt the fleshy slap of his chin-bangers.

“Holy moley!” He shouted in ecstasy before his creamy man-milk exploded into your mouth. You gulped it down like it was a delicious bowl of piping hot cream of mushroom soup (the condensed kind from a can).

“That was an adequate performance,” he congratulated you, before drinking the rest of his flask, belching, and falling asleep.


	62. Miami x Cop x Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miami x Cop making out, m/m anal sex, PIV, eating pussy

“Aahhh yeah, you like that, you little slut? Like my fat dick in your pussy? Y-you want it deeper, I can tell. I can– _feel it._ ” Miami Rick grips you by the backs of your knees, legs bent to your shoulders as he fucks you. It’s all so exposed, so lurid, but he told you to hold yourself open for him, and thus you obey, one hand on either side of your ass. That leaves your pussy spread and Miami grins around his toothpick, flicks it from one side of his mouth to the other. “ _Well?_ I-I-I’m pretty sure I asked you a question. Or is a good dicking all it takes to render you mute?”

You glance at Cop Rick, who’s kneeling on the bed next to you, pulling his cock in full, languid strokes. How Miami convinced him to join you this time, you have no idea. Indeed, he has slightly slack expression, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

That being: you getting reamed and begging for just a little more because it feels divine. You nod, a little frantically. “I’m… I love it Rick, please I want more. Can I… please I need to–”

Miami interrupts you with a burp, shifts his angle so his cock hits your g-spot over and over again. You make a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan, barely hearing him. “No. D-don’t– save it, slut. Give me– open your legs wider, yeah, theeeeere you go.” He uses you hard and fast and deep; you watch his enormous cock disappearing into you and coming out slick and shiny and you plead to him again, you need this, need to touch your clit. You can reach it yourself, if only he’d let you.

He snarls. “Bitch I said no. Don’t you fucking da–eeurgh–re forget who owns you.” 

You whine, clenching around him. Way past the point of shame, but if you embarrass him in front of the cop there will be consequences.

Miami’s voice goes low and harsh: “ohh fuck, that’s some good– some niii-eeugh–iice tight pussy. Do that– do it again, fuck, I’m gonna cum… ” Miami grabs the cop by the back of the neck, and spits out his toothpick before kissing him. Cop’s eyes widen in surprise but he recovers, opening his mouth and leaning into it. His hand still moves on his cock, he makes a sweet noise as Miami tangles his hand in his hair, pulling him closer.

You rise to meet Miami and he grips your leg harder, his fingers digging into the flesh. He speeds up, slamming into you, too big, too fast. He kisses Cop like he owns him, too, like he can’t get enough. You see flashes of tongues, Cop hesitates to touch Miami at first, then puts his hand on his chest, scratching red stripes with his nails.

The sounds that issues from Miami as he cums are something primal, from deep in his throat. His hips stutter and stall as he pumps his seed into you, though his attention is fixed on the cop. They nip at each other’s lips, exploring, a playful struggle for control.

Miami wins. He bears down with all the force of his charm and dominance and the cop relents. He traces patterns with his nails over Miami’s stomach, drags them over the stark lines of his ribs and hip bones. Each roll of Miami’s hips gets weaker, and the feel of his cock moving inside you grows slicker, until he pulls out. Still lip-locked with Cop, though when they part a string of saliva connects their lips.

Your mouth waters. You want to kiss both of them, want to fuck both of them, want to please both of them. You exhale a shuddered breath, letting go of your legs and relaxing. Miami smirks at you over his mirrored sunglasses, which have slipped down to the end of his nose. “Y-you, uh, you doing okay there, princess?”

You glare at him. He knows you hate being called that. He pecks Cop on the cheek (Cop looks disgruntled about that), then stands and shuffles over to the wet bar. Distantly, you hear the sounds of drinks being poured, k-lax being cut– that’s a relief. It means he’s not done.

“Are you okay?” Cop asks in an undertone. He positions himself between your legs, crouching on his knees.

“I’m fine.” You’re not. Your cunt is raw and aching and over-sensitized.

“Can I?” He lowers himself to his elbows, staring at your sex with a mix of lust and fascination. Two spots of color bloom high on his gaunt cheeks. He’s nearly identical to Miami, you know how things work in the multiverse of Ricks, but his mannerisms are different. Even naked you can tell them apart, even if Miami would ever take off those sunglasses. Cop doesn’t drool, and he hasn’t belched once so far. His eyes are soft, he gives you a gentle smile.

“Please,” you urge him. He trails kisses down the inside of your thigh. 

“He won’t mind?”

“No, it’s okay. He likes sharing.”

“And you like being shared?”

None of Miami’s friends have asked you that– and you’ve met a lot of his friends: a priest, the Transdimensional Council of Ricks, a rowdy group called SEAL team Ricks, and once, a Rick who had introduced himself only by his dimension number. C137. As if that meant anything to you. “I love it. I can’t get enough of you guys… as you can probably tell.”

Cop makes a ‘hmm’ and licks his lower lip.

“Wait, there’s still, um, he came in me, I can clean up first, you don’t have to–”

“I don’t care.” His gruff voice goes muffled when he dips his head and licks once, long and slow, up your slit. Your head falls back, you arch to him, breath out his name. He swirls his tongue around your clit, slow and wide, luxuriating in you. He loves how you taste, he murmurs, and the taste of Miami’s cum mingled with it too.

He adjusts, palming his cock and starting to stroke himself; he laps at you with quiet ‘mmm’s, you’re so sweet and wet– he buries his face in your heat. Your desire swells again and he has to hold your hips down as you rock up to his mouth.

“ _Oh god, Rick_ …” you’re close, your body humming, edged from Miami’s earlier teasing and denial. 

Speak of the devil… Miami ambles back over, his sclera are blue, he’s hard again. He tilts his head, enjoying the display in front of him. “you ready for my cock, slut?” You moan that you are and he snaps, “not talking to you.” He smacks Cop’s ass, not very lightly. “Well? Are you as thirsty as she is? Wanna find out if my dick fits in your ass?”

Cop’s eyes fly open and he grumbles. “I’m not a virgin, Miami.”

“Uh huh. You eat pussy like you’ve never tasted it before. Or, uh, you’re just desperate, y-you wanna slobber on my dick after I fuck your ass, just to drink more of my cum.” Miami doesn’t wait for a reply; he doesn’t need one. He gets behind the cop and prepares him. Lube, and fingers first. Then his cock, and you can tell when he first penetrates that tight ring of muscle; you’ve seen the same expression on your own face in a mirror when Miami made you watch him fuck you.

Cop exhales a shaky breath, goes back to kissing your thighs, then nipping and biting too, albeit lightly. You realize he’s trying to be stoic, to distract himself.

You brush his hair from his face, sympathize at his obvious discomfort. “He’s so big, isn’t he?” You say to him quietly. Miami can hear, but for once doesn’t interrupt. “His cock is so thick you feel like you can’t move but it’s perfect.”

Cop nods, then kisses your cunt again. His face is flushed, his eyes glassy. He clings to you, one arm wrapped around your leg, his other hand fists in the satin sheets. He holds himself still as Miami begins to fuck him open with short, sharp thrusts. You can’t see everything from your angle, lying flat on your back, but you can see enough.

“Nnngg god, Miami, fuck, that feels–”

“I know how it feels, y-you– good little slut, you’re just like her, you whine for me t-to– you want me to shove my cock up your ass and then you cry when I give you what you asked for.”

But he rocks back onto Miami’s cock and his eyes flutter closed, his mouth making a silent ‘o’. He is earnest, still, but starting to lose his iron self-control. He tries to go back to licking your pussy but everything is too much– the movement, his own mounting pleasure. His chin is wet when he lays his face on your stomach; he’s drooling. Figures it would take another Rick to reduce him to a pleading, flustered mess.

Your own arousal fluctuates, a low simmer at the moment, and you observe the cop’s gradual unraveling. You’re happy to enjoy the show and it is _spectacular_. They contrast, a beautiful pair. Whereas Miami is darker– tanned from hours spent lazing on his yacht, private beach, rooftop cabanas– Cop is pallid. You’d watched him when he had arrived, in uniform. The care he took as he undressed, button by button, layer by layer, folding each item into a crisp, precise square. “So they don’t get wrinkled,” he had explained. “And so they all fit in the assigned storage spaces.”

Surrounded here by refinement and decadence, Miami chooses to indulge and corrupt. He reaches around and pumps his twin’s shaft as he continues to pound him. The penthouse is filled with the obscene blunt slapping of flesh on flesh, and Cop’s low, desperate sounds. Miami caresses Cop’s back while he slows and fucks him deep and deliberate. Cop raises his head and presses kisses to your stomach, your hip bones, nuzzles your skin as Miami renders him incoherent.

“You gonna shoot your load any time soon, Officer?”

Cop can only moan, his voice choked with lust. You run your fingers through his hair as he starts to come undone.

“Thaaaat’s it, Rick, fucking nasty slut, you’re so uptight, who would’ve thought you’d take my fat dick so well. Yeah you like it balls deep, rough and– _unnhh_ – dirty, just like her. Cum on the sheets and she’ll lick it up for us, a-and then later we can both fuck her. Y-you– would you like that?”

Cop manages to speak, low and fervent. “Yes, Rick, I want– I want to fuck her ass, it feels so good. I-I-I’m– I want her to feel as good as this… “ His breath catches. “Oh _ffuuuck_ I’m gonna– I-I'm cumming…” He can’t hold himself up as he falls apart;his head drops to your stomach and he gives a carnal groan. You feel the wetness of his saliva dribbling onto your skin, offer him your fingers and he sucks them in his mouth, his need overtaking him.

Miami follows, his hips slapping against the cop’s. He growls his release, savage and profane, as he cums for the second time. You watch both of them, desire spiking once more. Miami slows by degrees, each pumping movement less violent, less urgent.

When he withdraws, Cop collapses, trembling and panting. For a short time he doesn’t move. Miami rolls his eyes at the vulgar display of cuddling and goes off to drink more. Cop clings to you, his head on your stomach, his eyes closed. You play with his hair, petting him in the quiet afterglow, until he remembers himself, remembers he’s a Rick.

He gets up, and meets your eyes with a wry smile. “You know, uh, my dick’s the same size as Miami’s, but I bet I can make you scream louder.”


	63. Knitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, you get to teach Rick how to do something.

“No, no, no. Here, look. Watch closely. In, like this. Through, from the left, behind the front leg. Loop the yarn from the right. Lift the old stitch off the left needle. And that’s it. See?”

Rick leans in close, squinting. “Do it again.”

You do. You make knit stitch after knit stitch, unable to quite see what you’re doing because his head is in the way as he peers at your hands moving. It’s nice to have him so close on the couch, usually he maintains a cuddle-free zone. His bald spot is right under your nose; you’re tempted to bend your head and kiss it, to bury your face in his blue-grey hair and smell his distinctive old-man shampoo. But that would end this little lesson, at the very least, and you had been so pleased when he had asked you to teach him to knit that you had bounded off to get your supplies. Asking _why_ would have been the prudent thing to do, though he had mentioned something about needing a cock sock that would actually fit him.

You reach the end of the row, transferring the last stitch from the left needle to the right, then turn it over and start again. Purling this time. “The right hand needle comes into the stitch from this side now. Got it?”

“Uh huh. And I– you can go faster, I’m not senile.”

“I assumed since you already set aside your own project–” on which you had done all the work for him, casting on and knitting a few rows before handing it to him “–that maybe you needed me to repeat the explanations.”

He falls silent– that’s strange, no acerbic comeback– and you do another stitch, and another, and another. You move faster, relaxing into the rhythmic trance of something mindless yet productive. The way Rick has angled his body, you can see only his back. And under the sound of the needles clicking, and the TV at low volume, you hear something else, something like–

“Rick, are you _masturbating?!_ ”

He leans back with a lewd grin to let you see. His pants and belt are undone, underwear shoved down enough to expose his massive cock and balls. “What, you get t-to– you always fetishize my hands like you wanna cut them off and preserve them in brine in creepy ass jars. I happen to have a few kinks too, baby. You like slobbering on old man dick and wrinkly balls and having your tight little ass fucked. I like your hands. I like seeing them wrapped around my dick, o-or holding your ass open for me when you bend over.” 

You stare, watching his hand moving up and down his thick shaft in lazy, luxurious strokes. You lick your lips, suddenly warm.

“Hey, slut, I didn’t say you could stop. Keep the– keep knitting. Continue.”

“But I want–”

_“What?”_

_So many things_ is the answer, but Rick has never particularly given a shit about what you want.

He takes out his flask with his free hand, tips it back and drinks. When he drains it, he belches; drool runs down his chin which he doesn’t bother to wipe off. “I’ll take your silence as uncertainty. But since you did me a solid, I’ll let you swallow when I shoot my load.”

He doesn’t bother to ask if you agree, but you nod anyway, unable to repress a needy sound.

“Thaaaat’s my good slut. Get- put that down, get on your knees. And keep your hands where I can see them.”


	64. DWC: You take Rick for some mani pedis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC: You take Rick for some mani pedis

“Rick.”

He grunts.

“Rick, are you listening.”

His ‘fuck off’ is muffled by the pillow he has pressed in his face.

“Rick, do you see the problem of not warning the aesthetician that your feet are super sensitive?”

He raises his head just enough to snarl, “suck my dick.”

“You know I will. But you realize they caught all that on CCTV.” A minute goes by where he does respond. Then your phone chimes. You look at it.

_Rick 17:57 — it’s not my fault they tried to scrub off the nanomesh thinking it was skin. It’s a built in self defense reflex mechanism._

_Rick 17:58 — also suck my dick_

From your seat in the armchair across the room, you see him flump back facedown on the pillow. You’d be sitting closer but he’s occupied the entire couch and then some. His long skinny limbs drape over the ends and his hand drags on the floor.

“Your defensive reflex kicked that lady in the face.”

No answer. This is why you can’t take him anywhere. It didn’t help that this particular visit to the spa, he’d been roaring drunk, and now he’s sliding into grumpy hangover territory.

You clear your throat. “That kick sent her to the hospital. Fractured jaw.”

He straightens his arm at an awkward angle, flipping you the bird. Oh, yes. He’d insisted on having his nails painted a color he described to you in a lewd undertone as ‘pink like your pussy’. For your own you’d chosen a robin’s egg blue overlaid with gold flakes, and when he’d asked why you had lied, making something up about trendy seasonal colors. They remind you of him, of the same shirts he always wears. You’ve counted them. He owns eight blue shirts, one for every day of the week plus a backup. The gold is for his belt buckle, plus you like sparkles.

You sigh, looking from them, back to the man who occupies too much of your time, your thoughts, your life. At least now you know his weakness: his feet are ticklish.


	65. DWC prompt: “Don’t you know how to knock?!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC prompt: “Don’t you know how to knock?!”

“Rick, what the hell!” You cry, unable to move or cover yourself. “Don’t you know how to knock?!”

“Juuuuust a moment, gotta grab my razor. And don’t you know rhetorical questions blah blah something something?”

“I’m changing my tampon!”

He shrugs, squatting in front of the bathroom sink and opening the cupboard. “So?”

“So don’t just barge in!”

“What, y-y-you’re worried I’m gonna see something that’ll offend my delicate sensibilities?” He rolls his eyes and burps.

“I mean… yeah? It’s gross.” You wrap the used one in toilet paper and stuff it in the trash.

“I’m not saying I’d lick your dirty tampon but y-y-you know I’ve been balls deep in your ass, right? Tell me you remember that.”

You pout and glare at him and resist saying ‘duuuuh’ too sarcastically. Most recently last night. It’s not like your menstrual cycle has ever had any bearing on him getting what he wants, which is usually fine with you. Especially during the first few days of it, when you’re achy and swollen and the slightest breeze gets you aroused.

One side of his unibrow quirks in warning at your tone. He stands, steps around you and turns on the shower.

_Seriously? He decides he’s going to take a shower now?_

“Not me.” He reads your confused expression. “Get in. I-eeugh— I’m gonna take you flying after this.”

It takes a moment, and Rick flicking his tongue at you indecently for it to click, and for you to remember the ridiculous title he had bestowed on himself: ace pilot in the Red Wing Air Force.


	66. DWC prompt: Rick in a suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC prompt: Rick(s) in a suit
> 
> warnings: gangbang, bukkake

What’s better than a Rick in a suit? Ricks in suits. And you, naked and on your knees before them.

Only one has removed any article of clothing. He smirks down at you as you wait at his feet, another Rick’s cock in your mouth, though you strain to watch him.

A sea of black and white, the pleasant smell of fine expensive wool mingling with scotch. He undoes his necktie, and just his hands— _his hands_ — are one more unfair distraction. He takes the length of silk, tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls you away from your task. You hold out your wrists obediently but he laughs at you, shakes his head.

“I-I’m— I don’t think so, slut. You’re gonna need those free.” You nod as he passes the length around your neck, pulls it snug and knots it. You bring your hand up to touch it, feel that it’s not too tight, but tight enough to remind you: whichever Rick holds that leash now controls your breath.

The Rick who got interrupted swears at him, grumbling, but soon enough you’re maneuvered to a couch— thrown, really.

Yet another massive cock is presented at your lips, a gruff voice orders you to open up and suck. You do, he shoves in, his girth forcing your tongue flat. You taste the salt and musk of his skin, savoring it. Another one gets behind you, jerking the tie and making you choke. You moan around the length in your mouth, eyes watering as he touches the back of your throat.

“Sh-show me you like my cock. _Nnnnhh fuck yes,_ thaaaaat’s it. All the way down.” He holds you by your hair, pulling you further until his balls rest against your chin. You swallow around him, gagging, saliva wetting your chin, until it’s too much and you struggle, panicking for air. He lets go and the Rick behind you chooses his moment to rub the plush head of his cock against your wet slit. His other hand grips the soft part of your hip, fingers digging in to leave white marks and little half moons. The pain centers you, the sharpness keeps you alert, yet pliant. Your body hums with need, clit swollen and throbbing.

He pushes into your cunt inch by inch, refusing to let you rock your hips back, or even move at all. You open your mouth, begging for the other Rick to cum on your face but he smacks your ass. _No dick in your mouth until you fit mine in your pussy, slut. Go ahead and whine, l-lemme hear you._

They pass you around. Whoever holds the necktie leash fucks you from behind. The first one to enter your ass does it so slowly, fills you so perfectly you quiver and ache. Past the tight ring of muscle, fucking you open with short shallow thrusts, each a little longer, a little deeper than the last.

“Good girl,” he croons, and you can’t be sure which one said it. They’re all perfectly dressed, still, their suits remain pristine. “Such a good—mmm— whore taking my— my fat dick in your tight little ass.” He rolls his hips, pressing his heavy balls against your empty cunt. You sob around the one in your mouth, the tie around your neck cutting off air for a moment. You need to cum, need to breathe. Those two necessities conflate in your pleasure-saturated mind. The Rick behind you starts stroking into your ass, his thick cock splitting you open and it’s too much. The friction is exquisite, you start to crest as Rick cums down your throat. He pulls out to let you wail his name, their name— _Rick oh god please please Rick—_

The load he’d just shot into your mouth dribbles down your chin, you drool it on his trousers and shoe as you ride waves of pleasure. The Rick behind you doesn’t slow down, pounding you, groaning how fucking tight and good you feel; you clench and tremble, overstimulated.

The Rick in front of you waits until you’ve recovered yourself, barely, grabs you by the neck and shows you where you ruined his suit. “See that? See? Right there, bitch, l-lick it up. Uh huh.” He puts his shoe up on the couch by your face. It’s polished to a flawless sheen, black leather, no scuffs. Except for your mess. “That too.” You do it, tasting the bitterness and salt before your head is yanked up again, mouth stuffed with cock.

They don’t stop. They use you and ruin you, each leaving a mark in some way. Smacking your ass and thighs, spitting in your mouth, grabbing your tits, choking you with their hands and the tie. You’ll be sore. You’ll have bruises. You will remember this.

Finally, when you think you’re at your limit, can’t take any more, Rick— the one who had removed his tie— picks you up and deposits you on the floor. They circle around you, cocks out. Nothing else amiss. Other than that they could walk into anywhere upscale and be served well.

“Chin up.” Rick pulls on the makeshift leash, making you arch your back and neck before he unties it and removes it. “Mouth open, slut. Y-y-you’re gonna drink our cum, I ho—eeugh—hope you’re thirsty.”

Their suits are unmarred, they look down at you from behind mirrored sunglasses. It’s a chorus of gruff, moaning voices, degrading you and praising you in the same breath. You stick your tongue out, mouth wide, and reluctantly squeeze your eyes shut. You want to see them, admire them. In your mind you fix the image of them, identical Ricks in identical suits above you, pumping huge erections and biting drool-slicked lower lips.

You start to feel spurts of cum hit your face, hot but cooling quickly. Your mouth, too, though none of them aim with any care. Your neck and breasts. Hair and stomach and thighs. You revel in it, in their attention, in the lustful sounds they make. You wipe your eyes eventually, they’re sticky and you gaze up. They’re tucking themselves away, or have done already, uniformly dapper and elegant. One of them hauls you up by your arm, holding you at a distance.

“Shower,” he grumbles. “Then we’ll get you a real drink.”


	67. Rick Nye the Science Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick is the star of a kid-focused science show à la Bill Nye and you’re his beleaguered producer. It goes about as well as you’d think.
> 
> Rough BJ, anal sex

“A-alright, kids—children. All the li-eeeugh-ttle tykes in the audience. Welcome to the Rick Sanchez Science Show babyyyyy!”

You close your eyes, fuming silently from your seat to the right of the director. First fuck-up of the day. In the wrap up later you’ll remind Mr. Sanchez that his new contract stipulates a pay deduction for every time he calls the show anything other than its actual name, intentional or not. Even though you’re taking a new job in a month, you still have to see this through. Have to make sure he doesn’t break any laws, at least, and cost the studio a fortune in fines.

“I’m Mister– I’m the scientist here. Around these parts. I’m Ri–eeugh-ck Sanchez the Science, uh, Grand..pez.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, listening to his voice and not so much what he’s saying, because he’s obviously plastered, swaying where he stands and gesticulating with a beaker full of _something_. As he waves it around between drinking from it, liquid— probably vodka—sloshes on some of the children standing near him.

But you’re focused on just his voice, and that’s your issue. The timbre of it is entrancing, rough, dropping to a low hoarse rasp when he gets enthusiastic about some experiment or invention; it’s a flagrant indulgence, letting him ramble on instead of telling the director to cut him off and move the show along. The problem is, as you stare down at the studio floor, it’s too easy to imagine what he might sound like in private. What he would say, and what his breath would feel like against the sensitive skin of your neck as he fucked you hard from behind.

You don’t quite know when or where or how the fascination began, but you suspect it’s related to the inordinate amount of time you spend putting out fires for him (literal and otherwise). No other explanation makes sense. He’s coarse, rude, gross… old. Surely it’s for the best that you’ll be moving on soon.

“Your parents have made a severe miscalculation in allowing you to be here, but remember, what do we say when we make a catastrophic mistake? Say it with me now!”

A chorus of young voices chimes many different things, including “we love science!”, “don’t tell mommy”, and “move somewhere far away!”

Rick says, “don’t think about it,” although he gives the ‘move somewhere far away’ kid an approving nod.

You sigh, cross your arms, and wait for your phone to buzz. Barb from the FCC should call any minute now, relaying complaints from family watch groups. You signal Eric the intern, whose only responsibility is to censor anything questionable. For a kids show, this one sure requires a lot of ‘bleeps’, and Eric has proven to be swift and adept at doling them out.

“These are my assistants, whose names are…uh… Kipper? Bipper? Eh, I don’t know. Whatever, you’ll all grow up to be resentful, bitter clones of your parents anyway.”

“I’m Samantha!” A little blonde girl chirps.

“Shove it, Samantha, stop being a little attention whor–” Rick cuts himself short with a swig from his flask, as if he realized what he was just about to say, and was swerving to avoid it, but no. “Who–eeeurgh–re. Whore. And put your safety goggles on.”

 _Oh for fuck’s sake._ You nearly tell the cameraman to stop recording, the booth to cut the broadcast. Just shut it down, walk away, start over. Maybe that one kid was right. _Move somewhere far away._ The star of your show is a cranky, perpetually inebriated disaster of a person, and yet— you allow it to continue. You’ll have words with him later, though what you intend to address remains unclear and jumbled in your mind. Maybe Rick’s approach is the right one after all. _Don’t think about it._ He won’t be your problem for much longer anyway.

“Okay, the most important thing is safety. Now let’s all sing this lame ass song about safety.” The sound booth cues jolly, jangly music, and the second camera pans over the studio audience. All the children are clapping and singing along nicely. Good, good. This episode might actually be salvageable…

Then it’s Rick’s turn. He forgets most of the words, sings horribly off key, and ends the song early with a belch loud enough to cut through the backing music. “Thank go-eeeugh-d it’s over.”

You dig your nails into your palms. You want to strangle him. He looks over— perhaps your ire emanates strongly enough that he can sense it— and smiles. Warmth suffuses you, trickles down your spine to pool low and hot at your core. Asking yourself _why_ you want to fuck him is pointless when all your rational mind can provide is reasons why _not._

“We’re gonna be doing some science here. Learning some cool science facts. Experiments. We— I’ll start out simple because I can’t— y-y-you’re all pieces of shit! And I don’t trust your attention spans. Soooooo we’re gonna do a lame ass baking soda volcano. Observe closely, you little turds.”

The rest of the show proceeds in much the same fashion. You field calls from Barb, dealing with her with as much diplomacy as you can muster. Eric is on point with the bleeps, dutifully keeping you updated with a running count until it gets out of hand and you tell him not to bother. Of course, Eric misinterprets that at first, and lets Rick shouting “how can you be this fucking stupid?!” at a child slip through before you clarify.

In between these small disasters, however, you ogle the star of the show. His elegant hands, his bald spot visible when he turns his back to camera, the ever-present drool on his chin that shines under the studio lights. His leering grin that cuts straight to you every time he catches you staring.

You find Rick afterward outside his dressing room, embroiled in an argument with a woman you recognize as Samantha’s mother.

“…Uh huh. Uh huh, I-I-I hear you.” He swigs from his flask while listening to her, and when she’s done, ticks off possible responses on his fingers and _oh god his hands._ You want to lick the spaces between his fingers if he’ll let you. “Yep, can’t say that, can’t say that, can’t say that… oh yeah. Lick my taint, lady.” He counts down ever finger except his middle one, and holds it up for the lady to see.

“Excuse me!” Her voice rises. “How dare you! You don’t get to talk to me that way! I did not put my daughter through two years of acting school so she could be abused on your pathetic show!”

“Ooooohhh, acting school, huh! Bet she learned a whole lot there, but you know the most influential effect on kids is what they learn in the home and that little brat is a reaaaaalll piece of work—“

“Rick!” You step in before he can inflict any more damage, and introduce yourself to the woman, assuaging her with reassurances that changes are coming for the ‘Rick Sanchez Super Mega Happy Funtime Science Jamboree!’ which may or may not include replacing its star. Rick grumbles something about the name being the only thing that needs changing as you escort Samantha’s mother down the hall.

His door is closed when you come back. “Rick?” You do him the courtesy of knocking, even though it’s unlocked. He lost door-locking privileges two seasons ago when he was found to be facilitating an illegal arms dealing ring. “Are you decent?”

Only a slight pause, then: “Come in.”

He’s in a robe, at least, which is both a relief and a disappointment. He’s drinking, too, and he’s had a wet bar installed since the last time you were in here, which was only a week ago. You eye the bottle of vodka, but go for the coffee pot instead, pouring yourself a cup and sitting on the couch.

“Rick, even by your incredibly low standards, that was a train wreck.”

He leans against the vanity, drinking straight from a bottle of what appears to be whiskey. “Hey baby, I worked… uh…not-hard to get expectations that low.”

You cross your legs, feeling warm. It’s a guilty pleasure, hearing him call you that, and a reminder that you need to be careful around him. Keep your distance.

You jiggle your foot, make several attempts to take your first sip of coffee, though it’s lukewarm and smells burnt. The couch is threadbare, his dressing room spartan yet somehow still untidy. The seediness of it all should put you off.

You get up again, smoothing your skirt, and go to the bar. Pour yourself a drink and ignore the renewed flutter of arousal at hearing him chuckle that you need something stronger. If you’re dealing with him, then yes, is the retort, and you ponder why you’re actually here. Talking to him, explaining his mistakes, bargaining with him– that’s never gotten you anywhere.

The first one burns going down. You pour another and turn to him, looking him up and down since he isn’t being subtle about doing the same to you. He’s tall. Much taller than you, and he looks ridiculous on the set towering over all the children. He’s skinny, pallid, his face lined and gaunt and usually frowning. His robe barely comes down to his knees, and it drapes on his narrow shoulders in a way that makes you want to feed him or wrap your arms around them as he ravages you. You clear your throat and look away.

He rambles for a minute or two, complaining about how he accidentally sits on his nuts if he’s not wearing pants or the right underwear. Your mind wanders, and you note the potential for his robe to flap open if he makes any sudden movement.

The alcohol lulls you to complacence, and he catches you off-guard.

“D-don’t lie. I can see— I’ve seen the way you look at me. L-like— like—” he pauses to belch.

Your heart clenches, you sip to cover your discomfort. _He knows. Good lord, he knows and he’s not going to let it go._ “Like what, Rick? Like I want you to do what you’re told for once and stay on script and not swear or drink or ‘accidentally’ cause explosions?”

He grins, seeing right through your deflection. “REally? Y-y-you’re gonna stand there and— okay, fine. I’ll lay it out for you nice and simple. The only reason this shitshow is still on the air is because of stoned twenty-somethings who think it’s hilarious to watch a nasty old crank like me traumatize some snotty kids.”

“They’re not the target audience.”

Rick steps closer to you. “Maybe it should be. Play it up, get some– a get a couple of hot assistants, play some music, do- do a weekly feature on… I dunno, craft beer or something.”

“This. Is. A children’s. Show.” You hiss, jabbing your finger at his chest. “And you are a pain in my ass.”

His expression darkens, all amusement gone; he looks down at your hand invading his personal space and catches your wrist in a vice-like grasp. “I know what the fuck it is. So— tell me. Wha— why haven’t you fired me?” He lets the question hang there as a challenge. “Tell me the real reason, why you keep me around. Why you find excuses to come talk to me and let me get away with shit no one else would tolerate for a week, let alone three years.”

You struggle, trying to test his grip and wrench your hand away. But you don’t tell him to let go. You don’t want him to. He puts his bottle down so he can hold your jaw, and forces you to look at him. “Sta-eeugh— stay still, damnit.”

He tilts his head, inquisitive, dispassionate, as if he’s studying you under a microscope, making observations; he settles on the stimulus he thinks will elicit the greatest reaction. In three words, he undoes you. “Say it, _slut._ ”

Lust flares in you, hot and insistent. There’s no ignoring this. A whimper escapes your lips before you can stifle it and you close your eyes against the humiliation.

“Say it,” he repeats, his voice low and gruff. He backs you against the bar, cleaves his body to yours and you can feel his erection through layers of clothes.

 _Oh god._ He’s disgusting. Or rather, you _should_ be disgusted but you are subject to the rule of a more primitive instinct. You want to drop to your knees for him, take him in your mouth just to stop asking why. You open your eyes and exhale shallowly.

And you can’t admit it. “…because you’re on a contract, Rick. And it would look bad for the network.” You know it’s a lie, you say it with no conviction, and press your body closer to his.

His eyes narrow, his unibrow forms a frowning V. His hand moves to your hair, tangles in it and jerks your head back.

“—what— y-you think I give a shit? What about the way I conduct myself makes you think that matters to me?” Again, he pauses to observe you, licks his lips. Suddenly he dips his head biting the column of your neck hard enough to hurt; it sends a shiver of arousal through you and you gasp, dropping your drink. The glass shatters on the floor but Rick permits no distractions, nothing less than your full attention.

He kisses you on the mouth then with a hoarse groan, infusing your senses with the heady taste of whiskey. This. This is why you should have known to stay away. You respond in kind, needing more, and when he feels your capitulation, he pulls back.

“Get—on your knees. Suck my dick.” Even as he says it you’re halfway to the floor, undoing buttons on your blouse as you drop. You bang your knee on the concrete, that will bruise but the discomfort hardly registers.

His eyes light with base amusement. “Open your mouth, keep it open.” You hesitate a moment too long for his liking and he smacks your face. You inhale sharply, more from shock than pain. Before you can complain he grasps your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks and spits in your open mouth. Just in case you’re not desperate enough for his cock already. Don’t ever say Rick doesn’t look out for you, and if you want to suck his dick he’ll make sure you do it right.

He loosens the sash himself, snapping at you that the only thing he needs is your mouth. You see the shadowed hint of his cock thick and heavy between his legs before he shrugs out of the robe and lets it fall on the floor behind him. Then he pulls you closer, and you barely get to appreciate its magnificence before he shoves into your mouth.

“Mmph!” His girth flattens your tongue, you taste the salt and musk of his hot, silky skin. You undo your blouse all the way, push the cups of your bra down to show him your tits. He pumps shallowly, letting out a low sigh that fans the flame of need between your legs hotter. As if he’d been waiting to do this all day, or all year, and now, _finally–_

“Uh huh. Thaaaaat’s it, get it nice and wet, slobber on my dick. I’m gonna— it’s going in your ass next. Get my cock ready to fuck your ass, good girl.” You moan around him at the promise. Tears leak from your eyes, you’re unable to stop yourself from drooling. It runs down your chin, he fills your mouth, makes your jaw ache. He’ll feel huge anywhere else; you shift on your knees, squeezing your thighs together, needing friction.

“Alllll the way down, fuck you look pretty like that, lips stretched around my dick. L-look– look up at me. Up here.” He holds the back of your head, stilling as the head of his cock touches the back of your throat, and his huge heavy balls press against your chin. _Don’t gag, don’t gag._

“Crying already? Mmm.” With his free hand he takes the vodka bottle from the bar and drinks, then belches, starting to fuck your mouth, deep, merciless. “Y-y-you gonna choke?” He asks with a laugh, knowing you can’t answer, bites his saliva-slicked lower lip as you swallow around his cock. He pulls out when he feels you stiffen and panic for air. While you’re sputtering and coughing, face wet with tears, he spits in your mouth again.

“There. Fuck– i-if you can’t handle my cock then lick my balls.” You don’t have to be told twice. You lean in, eagerly sucking one, then the other while he continues to stroke himself. “Ohhh _fffuck._ Get– get in there, slut. Think you can take my dick in your ass without whining like a little bitch?”

He wrenches you away from your task, gives you enough time to nod and breathe– yes, Rick– and then hauls you to your feet. “Yeah, we’ll see. Go— eeurgh— go. Couch. Now.”

You stumble over, rubbing at your scalp, and obey, earning a smirk.

“Nice, uh, nice thought there, legs in the air like a good slut—“ you flush at the praise “—but no. Turn over. I don’t wanna see your face unless I’m fucking it. Gotta— forced to have you stare at me all damn day, scowling—“

“I don’t scowl,” you interrupt as he closes the distance. His cock bobs and _holy shit_ it’s massive.

“I said turn the fuck over, bitch–” he grabs you by the neck, his fingers constricting, cutting off your breath– and flips you, handling you with surprising ease for a seventy year old alcoholic.

“Hey what the hell—!” You squeal in surprise. He squeezes harder, his voice harsh.

“Next time you interrupt me it’d better be scream my name asking me permission to cum. Understand?”

“Yes.” You can’t help sounding petulant, but you go slack, enough for him to work the hem of your skirt up over you ass, and bunch the material around your hips.

Elbows and knees on the couch, with him behind you, and he doesn’t care if it’s humiliating or not until notices your blushing reaction. _This is what you like, isn’t it? Been wanting my dick for– how long? Tell me the truth._ He caresses your exposed flesh, plays with your lacy panties before pulling the fabric aside – _if I said the only way I’d fuck you was on stage with a live broadcast you’d still do it, wouldn’t you?_

“Wouldn’t you.” His rough voice brings you back to reality, along with a warning smack on your ass.

“Yes!” A spark of pain, a jolt of arousal. You whimper at both. You should have expected this. Should have known that a man who showed little care for niceties around children would disdain them even more so in private. The idea makes you squirm eagerly, you’ve been fantasizing about him for so long.

“Hmmmm.” He echoes you, sees how wet you are, he describes it to you in lurid detail– how pretty and pink and juicy your cunt is, as he rubs the head of his cock along the lips. You rock your hips back, seeking more, which he refuses you.

Not yet.

Now is the only point he slows down. _G-gonna– gonna fuck your ass_ \-- draws his fingers through your slit, then arcs his body over yours, and orders you to taste yourself on his fingers. “Mmmm that’s it, get em nice and wet.” In his voice pitched low, you can hear his impatience, his wildness, his unchecked lust.

“C-can’t— you know how long I’ve wanted to fuck you in these,” his breath is warm on your neck, he keeps a running commentary as he works one finger into your ass, then a second one. “In these tight skirts you wear, and th-the flimsy shirts.”

He scissors the two fingers, preparing you, snaps at you when you try to toe your shoes off, “no, shit, keep the heels on. Fuck, I love watching you walk around in those, they make your tits bounce, it’s so damn sexy.”

Despite his rough treatment of you, Rick is not hasty. He knows he controls your pleasure, has it coiled and he won’t allow you any latitude; you’re whining with need by the time he replaces his fingers with his cock.

Thick. So thick, and massive. He spits again, the last bit of mercy to ease the penetration as he pushes in. You hiss at the sting as he breaches the tight ring of muscle. His grip on the soft flesh of your hips tightens, his nails imprinting little half moons on your skin.

A little more, he gives you another inch, rolling his hips with a groan, _you’re so damn tight, your perfect ass swallowing his cock._

He fucks you open, measuring each stroke just enough to keep you at that precarious edge of need. Desire pulses through you, and you know better than to touch your clit but you plead anyway. Rick is more than happy to exploit your willingness. He delights in turning it against you, in taunting you.

“Louder, slut, I’m doing you a favor giving you my cock, least you could do is make some noise. Wha-eeugh– what do you say?”

“Please, Rick. I need to–” you break off, reaching your hand underneath yourself.

“No.” He thwarts you with a hand on your shoulder, bracing himself while pushing your face into the couch. “Th-this is what you wanted, right? Some– a dirty fuck with an old man you probably fantasize about alone in the bath. You like it when I’m balls deep in your ass?”

You keen in agreement, rising to meet him as he starts to speed up.

“Show me. Hold your– spread your ass open for me.”

You obey. At this angle he feels impossibly big, splitting you and winding that insistent pressure ever tighter. Your clit throbs, your cunt wet and empty and aching. “Please…” you ask again and he ignores you.

Deeper, faster. He uses you for his own enjoyment, panting and moaning and telling you how perfect you are taking his dick.

“Y-you wanna cum, yet? Tired of me using your tight little asshole as my cocksleeve?”

You whimper, fresh tears pricking your eyes; your makeup must be running, you can see black mascara smudging on the couch where your face was pressed.

He smacks your thigh, hard, and you clench around him. “Asked you a question, you d— nasty slut. I know you just looooove getting fucked like a bitch.”

 _“Yes,”_ you manage.

“One last chance to _tell_ me, then. Or I’m gonna— I’m busting a nut and you can walk outta here still horny with your ass full of my cum.” He slows for a moment, rolling his hips, pulling almost all the way out and leaving you empty and wanting.

You’re so close, you’ll do anything. Could leave and take care of yourself later but— no. It must be him. “Fuck, please, Rick. Please let me cum, fuck my ass harder, _please._ ”

And he relents. He pounds you brutally, leaning over further when he releases your hip and reaches under you. His fingers find your clit. Slip in the wetness, and _jesus fucking christ you’re a soaking mess_ — he grunts, amused.

Obscene sounds of flesh slapping on flesh fill the room: his balls on your empty pussy, his narrow hips against yours. He rubs circles on your clit, not bothering to be gentle. “That’s it, fuck, y-you— I can feel you. Such a desperate whore for a fat dick in your ass.”

You sob in relief, in prayer, in thanks, _yes, please god Rick please._ One more swipe of his fingers, and his breathing is ragged as he commands you: “cum on my dick, slut.”

Jagged searing pleasure washes over you and he slams into you, burying his cock completely. You wail his name, or something close, over and over as you’re swept away. His release follows yours. His movements crescendo, stall at the top. Then back down, slick languid strokes as he pumps cum into you, and you spasm around him.

It takes a moment to come back to yourself. To remember where you are, and that your clothes and makeup are ruined, and your face is pressed into a not-very-clean couch. One of your shoes has fallen off. Rick pulls out with a sigh, belches, and lets you collapse where you are. You feel his seed leaking from your ass. Again, this should all be repulsive but you’re blissfully satisfied.

He pats you on the ass, wipes his hands and dick clean on your skirt. He bends over with his back to you to pick up his robe and you get a rather disturbing glimpse of the taint which he told Samantha’s mother to lick earlier.

“Thank you Rick,” you mumble, by way of getting him to turn around.

“Uh huh.” (He doesn’t.)

You sit up after a few minutes, having watched him re-dress and make himself one, then another, then a third drink. “Rick.”

He looks up from his phone. “You’re still here? Thought you would’ve run to HR so you could get me fired finally.”

“Mmm, no.”

One side of his unibrow raises skeptically.

“This sort of makes up for the past three years,” you explain. “And I’m taking a new job next month that films in the studio next door, so…”

He tosses back the rest of his glass and smirks, not bothering to wipe his chin.


	68. Cop Rick tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: major character death, brief PIV sex

Throughout the notification your hands don’t shake.

“I am Captain Rick Sanchez of dimension 99-B8… are you—“ he reads your name off a tablet, which he hands to his Morty partner. Your heart clenches with dread. You know why they’re here in your dimension, you’d known as soon as you had opened the door. You nod, pulling your cardigan tighter around you and stepping inside to allow them in.

“On behalf of the Citadel of Ricks Police Department, we regret to inform you that Officer Rick Sanchez of dimension N-277 was killed in the line of duty.”

The solemn monotone in which he says that knocks you back. You sit down on the couch abruptly. Doubt skitters across your mind.

“I was his… I don’t know what it’s called. Next of kin? Why are you telling me, we aren’t–” the word gets caught in your throat. You had been doing google image searches on variations of ‘sapphire engagement ring’ recently, and then deleting your browser history. It had seemed possible, with the way Rick looked at you sometimes, but you didn’t want to pressure him. “Not married.” You hold up your left hand to show Captain Rick your unadorned ring finger. His lip curls at that, ready to direct some mocking insult at you, but he holds himself in check.

Officer Morty is silent, while Captain Rick anticipates nearly every question, rattling off the facts with brusque impatience. You cross your arms, holding yourself rigid and still. He’s about as empathetic as a Rick can be. Respectful, minimal burping, though he does take a flask from his breast pocket and drink from it while explaining that he is not authorized to share the details of N-277’s death.

Death.

They don’t dance around the word. Your Rick is dead.

“The funeral service and burial will be held in the Citadel. Here’s a two-use portal chip. No escort until you get there, it’ll take you straight to the Sanchez Heights precinct station. Don’t wander off, you’ll be arre–eeugh–sted and word from higher is that President Morty wants a crackdown on illegal visitors–”

“What about Barry?”

“Wha– who?”

“His dog. His K-9.”

“Property of Citadel PD.” (You begin making mental plans to steal Barry, if you can even find him.) “Funeral’s two days from now. Arrive at 11 a.m. your time. Local time. Be– eeugh– be punctual. ”

He hands you the token. You wonder if there’s another Rick out there just like yours. There has to be. You want to believe the entire Citadel PD is comprised of men like him. Honest, self-sacrificing, just.

Morty stammers something about ‘our condolences’; you hear Captain Rick sneer about you after the door closes. Discard your second impression and retain the first. That one was just like all the rest. Yours had been an outlier.

The intervening time is surreal, and you hardly comprehend it passing.

The night before, you find yourself ironing the spare uniforms he had left in your closet. No recollection of taking them out, setting up the ironing board, retrieving the iron and the starch spray. He had demonstrated once, at your request, how he took fastidious care of the navy blue coat and trousers.

You depress the button on the iron to make a puff of steam. The crease is already there. Already sharp and perfect, but you go over it again and again and again, flattening it. You love the way his bony knees broke the creases when he sat down, and his long legs made the bottom cuffs ride up so you could see his pulled-too-high socks.

There’s a lump in your throat. Your eyes sting. Why are you doing this? He won’t need them again, but the thought of putting them back on hangers threatens to overwhelm you, so you lay them out on the bed, and sleep next to them.

In your dream you are lucid, or nearly so. Your mind allows you to picture him as he’d been the last time you’d seen him, but then decides for you. No. That won’t do. The last time you’d seen him had been distant, a little strained. The time before that, then, when you had seen the depth of his need, and the strength of his self control.

“Rick, we’re going to be— _ahhh_ — late.”

“Don’t care.” He’s never in a hurry with you. He takes his time eating your pussy, always does. Strokes himself to hardness as he laps at your clit, murmuring at your skin how soft and sweet and wet you are. You cry out, clutching at his forearm as you start to come undone. Try to warn him, as you always do. He watches your pleasure intently, and you watch him there between your legs as long as you can before you squeeze your eyes shut and throw your head back. The taste of you riles him; when he feels the pressure of your thighs against his ears lessen, he rises, flips you over, and enters your cunt in one motion.

You moan at the sensation of his huge cock filling you. He’s too big, you take him anyway. Revel in the raw ache of too-soon as he fucks you, his gruff voice reduced to low, needy groans. Still no hurry, though he gets faster and rougher, one hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can nip at your jaw and neck.

“So– _nnnfff– fucking gorgeous,_ ” he growls. That’s his refrain. He’ll remember himself for a moment, arching over you as his hips still roll. He’ll slow enough, stroking into you long and measured and deep. He kisses your shoulder blades, the middle of your back. You whimper. Your clit throbs, pussy aching and oversensitized and so perfectly split open. He presses his forehead to the spot he just kissed. His breathing is ragged. He pulls out almost all the way, just to hear you whine at the loss, then slams back in.

“Rick!” His name escapes your lips. You’re close to cumming again, just need a little more. He knows. He shifts, adjusting his angle and gripping your hips as he pounds you, his thick length hitting that perfect spot over and over. His fingers dig into your flesh. He urges you to cum again, then orders it– th-that’s it, fuck, you’re so perfect baby, cum for me now, your cunt’s so tight, cum on my dick, I can feel you–

The roughness in his voice, the bare lust, the truth of him– those unravel you. You wail his name, hands fisted in the sheets, you swell and crest. Intense, rolling waves of pleasure envelop your senses. You spasm around him. He pounds you, pressing in and stalling, then his movements resume, slick and more languid by the moment.

Sated, and he doesn’t withdraw right away. He nuzzles the back of your neck, kissing your mussed hair, panting quietly, all tacit affection. 

You—

remain silent. Whatever you feel, he already knows, and he doesn’t have to say it back.

**

This is not your first time here, though you wish the surly Rick escorting you would stop rushing you.

 _“The Citadel?”_ Your Rick had been skeptical of your interest, and impatient. _“Not worth visiting.”_ But he risked his life to serve in the best interest of its citizens, and had only once consented and brought you as a tourist. There was something about it that was important to him, and you had never asked him what it was.

You must balance yourself on a knife-edge to endure this. You must be serene. You will not allow yourself to cry, not in front of any of them.

The first thing you see upon entering the chapel is Barry lying in front of Rick’s casket, and you nearly break.

He’s flopped listlessly on the floor with his head on his paws. None of his typical alert energy.

As you walk to take a seat near the front, you overhear scoffing comments about the dog that’s been sitting there all night and has refused to move. Barry perks up when he sees you, his tail thumps uncertainly on the threadbare carpet. He tilts his head,, pads over and puts his head in your lap. Begging for pats as usual. You stroke his ears, closing your eyes against the sting of tears. Then he lies down at your feet or rather on your feet. Rick trained him better than that, but he knows he can get away with it with you.

You tune out the eulogy. It is stale and impersonal. They don’t know Rick like you did. _Resolute. Compassionate. Uncompromising._

During the service it’s hard not to listen to Ricks around you gossiping in low, blustery tones.

“–killed by a Mo-eeurgh-rty, I-I-I mean holy _shit_ , what a way to go–”

“No, asshole, he was shot _defending_ a Morty, which, yeah, just as embarrassing if not worse.”

“Fu-eeugh–ucking idiots, it was both. M-m-mortytown Locos got him and he bled out with no medi-pak. That’s what you get trying to help– trying to make those little bastards’ lives better…”

Their observations do not spare even you, and they speculate regarding your attendance. Just another slut for a Rick, and not even a good one. Why else would you be here?

Rage usurps the low current of anguish, you twist the strap of your purse, and your chest feels hot. Rick died in pain, alone and scared. Those had not been the answers you had wanted, when you’d asked during the notification.

Afterward, you stand up to leave. Your escort protests as you stride past him with Barry at your heels. Something about where do you think you’re going, you can’t take that dog, _hey a-are– what are you, deaf? I’m fucking talking to you–_

You activate your portal chip and flip him off before going through the swirling green vortex with Barry. And still, your hands are steady.

**

There will come a certain point when you know that it is time to move on. The realization will tear at the delicate edge of your composure. You will have shouldered every burden, glanced to every distraction. Braced yourself against the despair and rage and self destructive misery.

Grieving is a lonely and tedious process. The footing at every step is precarious and unsure and you cry more often than not. You come back into the quiet of your house. Barry’s nails click on the hardwood floors. He sniffs around as the portal pops closed behind you, and you imagine he might be confused, looking for Rick. You expect Citadel representatives to return for their property; they never do. The thought of returning to your bedroom makes you fearful, so you avoid it.

You yearn, sometimes more than you yearn to have Rick back, to simply dissociate. It is too selfish a desire to express. It grinds you down, hour by hour, smothers you and debilitates you and shames you. The way it forces you to be indifferent is corrosive; yet the alternative will rip you right open. Your body is not built to withstand this profound understanding of absence.

You lose days. They do what they will and slip away, like pieces of paper taken fluttering in the wind. There is no grave to visit.

Late one afternoon you get up, bleary and never-rested. You’ve been sleeping on the couch as a habit. You go to the bedroom because you remember that you had never re-hung his uniforms. They are right where you had left them, undisturbed, though with some of Barry’s shedding on them.

You take deliberate breaths, though your hands and body tremble as you replace the uniforms on the hangers. You get a lint roller for the dog hair and fix it. Perfect. The sharp creases remain and there are no unsightly wrinkles. Rick had joked sometimes about that, that his smooth uniform was to make up for his age lines. You press the fabric to your face and beneath the scent of wool, you can still smell him.

You dress and go to the front door. Barry comes running as soon as he hears the jingle of his leash. He bounds up, wagging his tail, giving you a tongue-out doggy smile. Without Rick you are empty, and fragile as glass. You kneel to attach the leash to Barry’s collar, and impulsively hug your arms around his neck; he waits as you cry into his fur. At last you stand and open the door. Barry pulls you out, impatient, bounding, joyful.


	69. DWC: Dirty Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Dirty Talk
> 
> Doofus Rick x reader

“Y-y-you want me to call you _what?_ ”

Instead of answering, you lick a hot wet stripe along the underside of his massive erection. He shudders, flexing his hands, but otherwise keeping them passively by his sides.

It is by design that you’re asking him now, on your knees in front of him instead of straddling him as you usually are. You gaze up at him, meeting his eyes with a knowing smile. “A slut, Rick.”

A helpless moan escapes his lips; before swirling your tongue around the plush head of his cock you take in the two spots of red high on his cheeks, his adorable bowl cut, the way he worries his lower lip.

“Please… I-I- I can’t. You’re–” He whimpers again when you cup his balls in your hand. “You’re so good, you’re a good girl…”

“Mhmm.” You hum as you take him in your mouth, then draw back, releasing him with a pop. “So tell me. Tell me what you want me to do.”

He whines in desperation. “I…”

You trail kisses along his shaft. “You want me to tease you for hours until you’re about to cum and then walk away?”

“Nnn– no. No, please, I want…”

You suck on his balls one and then the other, enjoying the weight of them. “…mmm. What?”

His hand goes to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair; he pulls you away with surprising roughness. “L-look at me.” For a moment you think he’s actually going to do it. Order you gruffly, _suck my dick, th-that’s it, take my– take this fat cock down your throat and choke on it, slut, and when I cum I might let you swallow it._

But no. He’s trying, but– “look at me. I am the captain now.”


	70. DWC: (Miami?) Rick giving the reader a champagne shower...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC: (Miami?) Rick giving the reader a champagne shower...

“Most men offer me a drink first,” you say lightly.

The man’s smile widens. He introduces himself as ‘Rick, Miami-type’, and he says it like he owns it. A louche, swaggering approach doesn’t impress you– your clientele typically doesn’t flaunt wealth– but before he places a wad of cash on the bar, he asks you a deceptively simple question.

“What do you want?”

Easy. Your voice pitches sweet and yielding, the same thing you always tell them. “Whatever you want.”

One side of his unibrow raises, his mouth thins in disdain. “How about one more chance. The truth, this time.” He rolls his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. He scrutinizes you openly, waiting for you to answer. A generous invitation to take your time. It seems to test the limits of his patience.

“I… champagne. I’d like champagne.” You blush under the intensity of his gaze. The confidence is there, sure. Explicit. Like he can see through your dress. Every man does that. He spins it to something indecent and intriguing. This will be more than a transaction. You grow warm, the first bloom of arousal winding down your spine to settle low in your core. He promises gilded civility, and chaos at his whim, and when he leads you to a back room, he delivers.

“Hands and knees, baby. _Crawl._ ”

You look down at the floor, one second of hesitation, expecting it to be gross— dirty and sticky with the refuse from a thousand late nights. It’s clean. This room is more opulence in an already-glittering club. You realize as you drop that he owns this place; all it takes for you to piece this together is the way he slouches on the throne-like seat at the opposite wall, and, with only a smirk, bids you to ask for the privilege of serving him.

The journey across the room is humiliating, even more so when he snaps at you not to stare down. You reach him, kneeling between his widespread legs. The outline of his cock and balls is visible through his thin linen pants. Desire swells again, insistent from earlier. He peers at you over his mirrored glasses, his leering wolfish grin masking a dangerous perceptiveness.

He takes a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket, pours a flute. You move to accept it, but he raises the glass in mock -toast to you and drinks from it himself. It’s a pointed reminder. This is his night, his party, his club. His city. He owns you, and paying was a formality. Doing you a favor, can’t you see, and you’d better thank him for it.

“St-stand up. Get up. _Faster_ \--” He snaps, grabbing your arm, and he rises with you, makes you stand for inspection— _I bought you after all, didn’t I?_ — and homes in on the flaws. He has a way of doing that, of seeing the imperfections, the cracks and chips and painted-over things. He notes that your heels look good for what they are. No more explanation there, but how could he possibly tell you’d taken them to a cobbler twice?

Your dress is adequate. He orders you to strip and finds nothing to criticize of your bare flesh. Your lingerie, though–

“Wait, you’re not going to rip it off?” Strange. Usually they love that part.

He hooks a finger under your bra strap and snaps it against your skin. “Where’s the fun in destroying something so cheap and tawdry?”

–for while he recognizes flaws in materials, he sees none in your form. There is nothing to correct, only a figure to adorn. “L-l-let’s go. That shit too. Off.”

You square your shoulders before unhooking your bra, shove your panties down and step out of them. Discard them with as little care as he’s shown. Naked, you meet his eyes. He brings the champagne bottle to his lips and takes a slug.

“Still thirsty? Still want a drink?”

You nod, catching yourself before parroting ‘whatever you want’. He takes another drink, burps, and some of it dribbles down his chin. Most of your clients trip over themselves to keep you entertained. Not him. _Impress me_ , he tells you, and you swallow thickly, wanting to lick the saliva off his lower lip. 

He stoppers the top with his thumb and shakes it. Right before he holds it up to your mouth you notice the label; it’s a bottle valued upwards of ten thousand dollars—and he moves his thumb.

Champagne froths out, overflowing. You aren’t eager enough to appease him. His free hand shoots out and grabs your jaw, simultaneously forcing your mouth open and bringing you back to your knees. He tips the bottle higher. You lap at the bubbly foam, trying to prevent it from spilling but it’s too much, too fast. The least of it runs down the bottle, most of the rest pours onto your chin, your neck, your breasts, your stomach.

He grins at the wastefulness of it. At the obscenity. The lewd mimicry of this position is no accident. When it’s empty most of your front is sticky. You’re tipsy, your body humming with arousal. You lick your lips, tasting the residue and gaze up at him, wondering how badly your makeup has smudged. He retrieves another bottle, pops the cork out, and lets it fizz over his hand. With his other, he strokes his erect cock through the material of his trousers.

Normally you could care less about this part with clients. It’s not all bad, it’s not traumatizing. You have a way of making yourself glaze over it. Now, though, it is not within your power to look away. You lean forward, wanting to undo his clothes, to see more, to take him in your mouth.

“No.” He stops you as soon as he sees your desire, drinks more. He massages his length, unhurried. “C-can you dance?” He asks before clarifying, “a-a-and I don’t mean—I’m asking if you’re any good at it.”

“Probably not as good as any of yours, but yes.”

“Close enough. Go—euggh—go on. Shake that ass for me.” He shrugs out of his pink linen sport coat, pulls his blue silk shirt over his head. You stare unashamed at his bare chest, and the thin gold chain; he takes his seat once more, and barks that he already knows how good he looks, and if you let that mouth hang open any longer he’s gonna hurry things along and fill it with his cock.

Your first attempt displeases him. _Wh-what the fuck is this shit? Are you a-a-a—you at a debutante ball at a country club?_

And your second is likewise too proper, too stiff.

“What’s it gonna take? I-I’m—do I have to make you feel like the whore you are?” He sniffs, swigging more alcohol. “When you said ‘yes’ was it just because you thought that’s what I wanted to hear?”

You start to turn around and respond ‘no’ rather hotly.

“Do it or get out.” He interrupts you, shaking up the bottle again. So you dance, gyrating your hips, swaying to the music, getting into it when suddenly you feel the bubbly spray on your back. You exclaim in surprise, then giggle at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, looking over your shoulder at him. He bites his lower lip, his eyes gleam, and he adjusts his bulge. Inspired, you bend, legs slightly apart, giving him a view of your ass and pussy, which he appreciates with a laugh. He leans forward, kisses one cheek, then the other.

 _Better._ You dance on him, grinding on his skinny thighs. He smacks your ass, sprays more champagne on you, all breathless, lurid excess. Delighted by the lapse in your reserved composure, he rewards you. Fat stacks of hundred dollar bills, he peels off a few at a time at first, amused that they stick to your wet skin. Moves on to fistfuls as you twerk on his lap, and finally throws loose bundles of them in the air. They rain down over both of you.

You see, when you turn around and straddle him, a few are perched in his unruly blue-grey hair. Your core pulses with need, you roll your hips against his, feeling the solid heat of his hard cock. A low moan issues in his gruff voice. Even more, you need him, need to hear that lustful sound again. Between that and the sip of champagne he gives you, you’re dizzy, sensual, wanton, press your tits in his face and he kisses them, your ribs, stomach, whatever’s closest. He pulls your hips down, the line of his cock against your bare cunt, letting you grind on him.

When you beg him to fuck you it’s sincere– you wish you could reassure him you never do this, you’re never this way with clients, but with him–

He preempts you having to say anything. He stands, dumping you from his lap to the floor. “H-hand– gimme your purse.”

You blink, confused by the sudden change. “What?” He shakes up the remainder of the bottle and sprays it in your face, all over your hair, too, which had been mostly spared. He tosses the bottle over his shoulder, belches, and starts undoing his belt and fly.

“Did you not hear me or are you stupid?”

Gasping and sputtering, face dripping with liquid, you retrieve your purse. “Why do you need it?” And brief fear seizes your heart, that he’s going to take the money back, or not pay you in full. “Did I do something wrong?” His slacks are spotted dark in some places with champagne, and there is a slick of what must be your arousal over his crotch. Maybe he’s annoyed at you for that?

He smirks, hearing the desperation in your voice. “Nooooope. Well–” fishing around in your bag, he comes away with your tube of lipstick. Your best, the only thing you spend good money on, to give yourself that perfect satin red pout. You’d been wearing it at the beginning of the night, it must be all over your mouth by now.

“–your makeup is ruined,” he concludes, discarding your purse and uncapping the lipstick. “Let me– I’m gonna fix it.” Towering over you, he grasps your jaw, his long fingers digging into the flesh of your cheeks. “Mouth open a little. Mmm, you’re gonna– I want your mouth nice and pretty and red when you suck my dick in a minute here.” His touch is not delicate. He smashes the carefully-preserved tip against your lower lip first, laughing as he smears bright red.

Tears prick your eyes; you like that lipstick, and he’s being so cruel but you can’t wrench away, and underneath that, the basest part of yourself, the part ruled by lust– that part doesn’t want to. That part wants whatever he deigns to give you, and whispers to you that you might stay on your knees for him forever. He blunts the lipstick down so it’ll be unusable, a mocking recreation of your earlier appearance.

Done, and he throws it on the floor. There are still hundred dollar bills scattered around, some are still stuck to you. “Now. Y-your mouth looks– it’s good. Acceptable. Looks like a whore’s mouth.” He nudges your stomach with his foot when you pout at him. “Bitch, sit up straight.” He frees his cock as he speaks. “Hands on your knees, look up at me. Mhmm.” He bites his drool-slicked lower lip, pulling with long strokes.

Your tongue darts out to lick your lips in anticipation– he’s huge, and his balls, strangely, make you want to lick them. You lean forward, bringing one hand up to touch him, but he slaps it away.

“Wh-what– was I unclear? Hands on your knees, I’m using your mouth now, nothing else.”

Stung, you nod. You get the impression that he’s done playing, he’s indulged whatever fun he wanted with you, and he has little of his earlier patience.

You open your mouth wider as he feeds you his cock, listening to his low rough voice explain: “the lipstick– w-w-we’re gonna see how far you can take my dick down your throat. I’m– I wanna see a ring of that bright red around the base of my cock before I cum.” He tangles his fingers in your damp, sticky hair, pushing in further. His girth flattens your tongue, you can’t tell how much he’s given you but it’s already too much. His hand on the back of your head keeps you from drawing back, though you panic for a moment, clenching your hands to fists. Still on your thighs. You won’t be so careless again. 

“Choking already?” He sneers. “Thought you’d be well-practiced at this.” He doesn’t slow his shallow, languid thrusting, and you remember out of necessity to breathe through your nose.

Despite your discomfort, despite everything, desire remains. Low and heavy and insistent. It makes your body pulse. He orders you to open your eyes, and you gaze up the expanse of his body. His hip bones jut out, as do his ribs. He has the complexion of someone naturally sallow, but sun-baked. This is Miami, after all. He surrounds himself with luxury, and sees the world for what it is: lawless, unforgiving, random. But instead of pulling back, instead of surrendering, he dives in. He stirs chaos himself, molds it to his advantage, or rather his whim. So when he asks ‘what do you want’ it’s probably because he already knows.

He knows, as he purrs to you now, that you’re wet for him. “Bet that pussy is niiiiiice and slick right about now, huh?” His cock hits the back of your throat and your eyes water anew. “Isn’t it, slut?”

You moan around him, feeling wonderful and debauched. You want to rub your clit but you know better than to move your hands.

“You like swallowing m-my– this fat dick, don’t you? You’re slobbering on it pretty good, nnnnff fuck, yes, that’s it.” He holds you there, all the way down. You gag, salivating. His heavy balls rest on your chin, the sparse hairs at the base of his shaft tickle your nose, you taste the wax and pigment residue. “So pretty and perfect like this with your red lips stretched around my cock, y-you– goddamn you feel so good– spread your knees for me.”

You obey instantly.

“Thaaaaat’s it, show me your– show me that sweet pink cunt, show me how wet you are.”

You do, spreading the lips for him to see the shiny moisture.

He sighs, a delicious, needy sound, and starts fucking your mouth in earnest, hard and fast. His balls slap against your chin, his breath comes in ragged groans, the thick blunt head of his cock hits the back of your throat. He rasps a warning not to touch your clit, _hands on your knees_ , and then he stalls as deep as he can go–

“Ohh _ffffuck_ I’m gonna cum…”

– but he pulls out before he does, and you whine in protest, a strand of your saliva connecting the head of his cock to your lips before breaking off. His thick length is banded with streaks of red, each a mark of your progress. He laughs at your eagerness. “Oh, y-you wanna swallow it, huh? Wanna drink my cum, thirsty slut, bitch I know you do. I-i-it’s alright, we’ve got– there’ll be time. Arch your back for me, baby. Yep, tits up, _god you’re gorgeous.”_

You stick your tongue out, waiting, flushed from praise and arousal, a heady combination when he’s the one giving you both. He strokes himself roughly, his long fingers dexterous, and you think if he gets anything on them maybe he’ll let you lick them clean? The prospect makes you squeeze your thighs together.

He asks if you’re ready for a gift, jewelry, he promises. You beg him, not caring so much about the jewelry, but wanting to see him come undone, and in his release of pleasure he does not disappoint. He pumps his cock, the ring of his thumb and forefinger sliding over the plush head and then he’s cumming, biting his lower lip until a hoarse groan escapes and he fixes his gaze on you, eyes hooded and pupils blown black. You try not to squirm, though you ache, need to touch yourself. You’ll have to wait. He aims for your neck and tits, letting his load spurt in ropey arcs. You feel it hit your skin, hot, cooling quickly.

He lets go of your hair, not before offering you the hand he’d just gotten messy. You clean what little there is of his seed from his fingers and he hums approval. Your silence prompts him: “what, you didn’t like the, uh, m-my gift?”

You tilt your head, wondering what kind of trick this is. It takes you a moment longer than is dignified to realize what he’s talking about. You look down at your chest, then back up at him. A pearl necklace. Horny and frustrated, you can’t muster much amusement, but he turns away, cackling, and you take that as your cue to leave.

You sigh, getting up to gather your clothes, redress and slip out quietly. It’s a familiar routine, just as much as denying your own climax is. You’re out a lipstick, but at least you made money. You can go home and masturbate dreaming of him. He stops you.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He pushes you back down to your knees and dangles a baggie of pink crystals in front of your nose. “We’re not done, baby.”


	71. DWC: No one should look as good as you do in safety goggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC: No one should look as good as you do in safety goggles

On the first day that finally feels like summer, you wander into Rick’s garage workshop wearing flip flops, shorts and a tank top over your bikini. It is hotter in the shade, sultry and dense as opposed to the blinding heat outside in the sun. Rick doesn’t hear or see you at first over the metallic drone of the table saw, so naturally, you take the opportunity to admire him unhindered.

He is wearing a white undershirt, having discarded his blue long-sleeve one on the washing machine. As he works, you watch the darting movement of his lithe muscles under pallid skin. He cuts power to the saw and picks up a pull-knife. His mouth is set in a thin line, he starts drawing the blade along a section of wood. It smells wonderful in here. All the things you associate with him, laid out for you to see. The dry warmth of fresh-milled lumber, and motor oil draining in a pan under his ship, and whiskey, every time he pauses to swig from an open bottle of it which he always keeps within arm’s reach.

His back flexes when he hoists one section; you trace the long lines of his body with your eyes, the sweat beading on his chest, the sawdust in his hair and unibrow. You imagine him lifting you onto his workbench, cleaving himself to you, kissing your jaw, neck, he can never get enough. His mouth won’t leave your skin when he spreads your knees and places himself between them. He’ll roll his hips so you can feel the clothed hard ridge of his erection against your thigh. He’d want you as sweaty and filthy as him, wanton and begging when he raises your hips enough to pull your shorts down, kick them away. He couldn’t be bothered even with undoing the side ties on your bikini, just pushing the material aside, and freeing his cock, rubbing the hot plush head of it along your slit and making you moan. 

Engrossed as he is, it takes awhile for him to catch sight of you; when he does, he jumps and yells, the round-lenses goggles lending him a crazed air. “Jesus fucking Christ, wh-what— how long have been standing there? Were you just gonna stand watching me in creepy silence the whole time? I mean… holy shit, you almost made me drop this beam on my foot. Jesus.”

You shrug, sipping your mai-tai to cover the flush of arousal that suffuses you; your salacious daydream had progressed quite far. You wonder if he has any idea what you’re thinking. “What, I like ogling you. Besides… no one should look as good as you do in safety goggles.” He’d hate hearing the real list of reasons. That conversation would not go well.

_‘Rick, I like squeezing your wrinkly old man ass, and the way you tuck your old man tank top into your high-waisted pants, and by the way, how do you have room in the crotch for your enormous dick and balls?’_

Rick lifts the section of two-by-four and sets it in the cut pile, then turns his full attention to you; the intensity of it never fails to quicken your pulse. As he stalks over he takes off his work gloves, tucks them in his back pocket. Pushes the goggles up so they sit on his forehead and make his hair stand at even crazier angles than normal.

 _Actually, the safety goggles, too._ You’d said it lightly, joking, but they suit him. “What are you making?” You tilt your head to peer around him.

Right in front of you, he looms even taller. “New be-eeugh-d frame. For the one you broke.” Drool runs down his lower lip; he doesn’t bother to wipe it off. After you’d licked it once while he was fucking you, you’re pretty sure he exaggerates the effect to rile you.

“I didn’t break it. You pounded me into the mattress so hard–”

“O-oh, yeah, who was screaming ‘fuck me harder’?” He steps in closer.

“It was your bionic hip, Rick. That thing has some serious torque.” 

Arguing won’t distract him, not now that he’s got you in his sights. Rick in pursuit of information and Rick horny are separately not to be trifled with. Wielding them in tandem he is unstoppable; he knows your weakness for him, and has no qualms about using whatever means necessary to get you to tell him what he wants.

You know all this. You know how he works. It doesn’t make him any less effective.

His mouth quirks as he takes in your outfit, your fruity drink, your attempt at wide-eyed innocence. “Y-y-you think I look good, huh baby? Just the safety goggles?”

“Mhmm!” The nonchalance is entirely fake, and he can hear it. 

He puts his hand on your waist, finding bare skin under your thin shirt. His fingers ghost up your sides, bringing the hem along. One less layer makes all the difference in this weather. You sigh and melt to his touch, raising your arms to let him pull the shirt over your head. He drops it on the floor, and proceeds to tease the real answers out of you, and with this incentive you’re more than happy to divulge your secrets.


	72. DWC: Friday the 13th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC: one prompt for all: Friday the 13th

The latest disaster of the day is hearing the twin engines of Rick’s little garbage ship sputter and then cut out. The first one, driver’s side, goes quite suddenly, which sends the craft spiraling in a corkscrew– of course Rick can’t immediately correct this because he bounces around the cabin, unsecured by a seatbelt.

Somehow, you manage to reach for the yoke and straighten it out, just in time for the second engine to die.

After Rick has righted himself, he gets out his flask and drinks rather than buckling up. “Shi—eeugh-iiiit. How much time did that lose us?”

You press the button on your digital watch to light up the display. “4:35 PM. 11 minutes. Why d’you think everything’s going wrong today?” You think about asking for his flask; you want some too after that experience, which was rather like being strapped inside a clothes dryer). Previous mishaps included Rick knocking over an entire shelf of liquor during a pit stop at an intergalactic gas station, Rick getting pulled over by Galactic Federation police in a routine traffic stop, Rick’s terrorist/fugitive status being discovered during said traffic stop, and a subsequent, less than graceful escape.

And now you’re here, floating in space, on the lam from the alien version of the Feds. Rick has a knack for making his problems everyone’s problems. “Oh, and it’s Friday the thirteenth,” you note lightly.

From what you can see in the wan light, it looks like the color drains from Rick’s face. “Wh-what?”

Later, if you ask him about that expression, he’ll deny everything. “Friday the thirteenth. At least, on Earth. I can never keep up with resetting my watch every time we go somew—“

He belches to interrupt you. “Yeah, yeah I heard you. But…shit. Fuck. W-w-we gotta get outta here.” He tears a panel off the dashboard, exposing wiring, and starts tinkering, muttering ‘bad luck’ in an urgent undertone. 

At first you aren’t sure that you’re hearing him clearly. Rick isn’t superstitious. Everything you know about him tells you that he _can’t_ be. Analytical, rational, _brilliant_ Rick. He lets your black cat Mog sit on his lap more often than he tolerates _you_ doing the same. He holds up science, and his own intellect, as absolute truth, if he must, in a universe that rejects standardization and comprehension.

You draw your knees to your chest, giving him room to dive under the glove compartment to reach an inconveniently-placed lever. As Rick built the whole ship himself, there’s no telling what informed his design choices other than alcohol and boredom. He flips the lever, the engines putter, then roar, and with that, you’re moving again. Delighted with himself, he not only shares his liquor, but allows you to select one song on the radio (the privilege is revoked when you tune it to Spice Girls).

Later, after the thrill and relief have faded, you remember and stay quiet. You turn over all the questions you want to ask him other than whether he’s superstitious. He rants often enough about there being no god, no higher powers, unless he counts himself. Only whim, and the resulting chaos. And he usually gets into it without prompting.

Tonight, he has nothing to say about those. The two of you lie naked next to each other on a dingy bed in some cheap motel, swapping a pipe and a bottle back and forth, and you finally get buzzed enough to ask whether he’s scared of Friday the thirteenth.

He snorts at the question. “What are you, stupid?” As if Rick is scared of anything (he is: pirates). “No. The time. 4:35 PM in that quadrant is dangerous– it’s–” he sighs, motions for the bottle, and takes a long drink before launching into the explanation. You relax at last, enjoying the way his long fingers pattern arcs on your bare thigh, and fading, content listening to his low, rough voice.


	73. Toxic Rick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rough bj, anal. Toxic Rick is gross.

You always know when he’s been here from the residue he leaves. Footprints of drab olive green on your white carpet, swampy gunk mashed into the fibers. Those are the first, least intrusive indicators. One afternoon, a grimy handprint appears on the outside of your fourth-floor apartment window, and joining it later, a crudely-drawn cock and balls.

Your heartbeat quickens when you notice them, and two more handprints, one morning on your way out the door for work. All that day, he invades your thoughts. You find yourself doodling approximations of what you remember: massive, thick, visceral in your memories of him shoving down your throat, splitting you open, filling every hole. Despite this, you can never quite recall how he tastes, exactly. It’s not pleasant.

And yet, you crave it, and him, and you will get another chance. He always comes back sooner or later. The signs will get clearer as the week progresses. Even though you know what to expect, you get nervous. He’s never done it the same way twice, you can never prepare enough.

That’s what makes it fun for him. He plays a cruel game hunting you, tuning in to precisely what will induce fear. Either way, he has ways of making you submit. He will make you struggle, and he will break you.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs and squeezing your thighs together, enjoying the stillness and silence in the empty office. Everyone has gone home except you, and now you can focus on your salacious drawings. 

His cock and balls are monstrous; they have a weight to them, and the toxins dripping from him cover every inch, his genitals are no exception. You try to capture that on paper, no longer careful about hiding your notepad, as you sketch a bead of the toxin oozing down his shaft and dripping from the tip.

“Miss me?”

You ‘eep’ in surprise, looking up to see him looming over you, grinning at your sketches. The shock makes you unwisely blithe in the face of his impatience. “Jesus, Rick, how could I have time to miss you? That barely took half a month.” Usually he likes to draw out the pursuit longer.

His smile vanishes, he’s not in a permissive mood. “Down, slut, unless you wanna taste your ass after I fuck it.”

You ignore him for a moment, turning back to your computer to type out a brief email. Critical mistake. He grips your hair, twisting his fingers in it, and puts you on your knees where he wants you. There’s an initial, familiar thrill at the rough treatment, the twinge of pain from him pulling your hair, and the odd sensation of his gooey fingers on your scalp.

Fear, you recognize, mingling with a flutter of arousal, and together they slither and twine downward to coil low in your belly. “Open.” He jerks your head, wrenching your neck. “I said _open_. Wh-what, is this, ‘waste Rick’s time’ day?” With his other hand he smacks your cheek repeatedly. You try to flinch away by instinct, but he tightens his hand in your hair.

Eyes shut, you open your mouth with your tongue out. Second error. He hits you hard, open-handed. You gasp at the sharp pain, your eyes fly open.

“Rick, what the hell–!”

“L-l-look at—you’re gonna look at me. The whole time, you’re gonna know who-eeeugh—who’s fucking you. Got it?” At your petulant silence, he bends down, putting his face right up to yours, and belches.

Flecks of his gross saliva shower you and get in your mouth.

“Ughhh!” You grimace at the taste.

“Oh you don’t like that huh?”

“It tastes like—ughh it’s nasty!” Vodka is the strongest flavor, or perhaps something closer to ethanol, but with hints of banana and zucchini bread and coconut mixed in.

He pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth. A full dose of it is even worse. You splutter, swearing at him, until he snarls at you to shut up, and straightens up, presenting you with his erection.

“Suck.”

For once, you obey. You lean in eagerly, taking him in your mouth, heedless of the toxins. You know he’ll make you sick, you know he’ll ruin you. His girth flattens your tongue, stretches your jaw, the taste isn’t any better but his length is hard and hot and his layer of ooze fills every crevice of your mouth, drips down your chin.

He pulls your hair, growling, “whole mouth. Not part of it! My— I got a big dick here, you think that shallow noncommittal bullshit is good enough for me? Huh?! Who else have you been fucking? Who told you that was acceptable?”

You can’t respond, though you try anyway, and it results in muffled gurgling. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat and you gag around him. He laughs at that.

“Come on slut. Allllll the way down, choke on it. Cram it down your throat, i-i-it’s an acquired taste, y-you—I know you’re gonna beg me for more in your mouth as soon as I start fucking you.”

Yes. You want him everywhere, all at once. Eyes watering, you take him down to the base, feel his balls against your chin, and swallow.

“Fuuuuuuck. G-good. Good girl. This is why I have to visit you more often.” He wipes his slimy hand over your whole face, leaving a quick-drying film of his goop. “Your mouth needs training. You’d forget how I like my dick sucked.” He picks up a languid pace fucking your mouth, deep and insistent. Tears track down your cheeks, you almost forget his instruction and close your eyes; he reminds you with a sharp tug on your hair. “And how to _thank me_ and beg me to fuck you.”

You moan in agreement, an obscene sound; as good as his cock feels in your mouth, you want more. You think he might let you lick his balls next.

Instead, he pulls out abruptly, letting go of your hair and leaving you coughing on his foul taste, and on the sudden influx of air. With his foot, he nudges you onto your back, not very gently. You only avoid a blow square to the chest by rolling back on your heels, and sitting. Unwilling to wait, he kicks your legs apart.

“Open. Fucking—open your legs, keep em open.” He drops to the floor as you do it. “Yeah hold your knees, show— spread your cunt for me.” No panties under your skirt. You hadn’t known he would appear tonight. It was a lucky choice. He bites his lower lip, eyes gleaming, taking in your bare sex, shiny with arousal, and your flushed face. 

Sitting on his heels, he rubs the slick head of his cock along your slit. “Tell me, how loud would you scream if I just… shoved my dick in your pussy right now?”

You try to lift your hips to him. You ache, you want to touch your clit, but you know better. Holding your legs open like this, with no friction, is torturous, and only winds your need tighter.

He laughs, teasing your opening, but not penetrating. “Yeahhhh you’re– euurgh– you’re wet for me, little slut.”

You whimper, pleading for him to fuck you.

And— “no.” A whim, again. A sudden change of mind, and there’s no discerning why. “Ass. Gimme that ass. Open it up. Show it to me.” Pretty and perfect, he declares, aligning his cock to the hole, and seeming not to notice that a long strand of his green saliva dribbles on your blouse.

You crane your neck trying watch, transfixed, trembling as he pushes his thick length into your ass inch by inch. Not by choice, does he go slowly. You’re too damn _tight_ , he grunts, annoyed and undeterred. He breaches the ring of muscle, ignoring your whimpering breaths that it hurts, and gripping your waist.

His hands are slippery, same as his cock. Pre-lubed, he’s bragged before, and he’s right, but he’s big and impatient so that doesn’t help much. He rolls his hips, filling you a little deeper each time, fucking you open until his cock slides in and out smoothly. You shudder at the moment he’s fully seated in your ass; he stills there, watching the exquisite pain/pleasure in your expression He likes that, likes watching his thick length disappear, burying himself in your ass as you pant and squirm.

“Rick…” You loosen your hold on your knees, starting to let your legs go. The urge is too strong, you reach for your clit.

He burps, moving his hands, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs and pressing your knees to your shoulders. He drills you, each stroke filling you, his balls slapping against your ass with a heavy, grotesque sound. You angle your hips up to meet his, all pretense of struggle abandoned.

“Unnnff fuck you’re so hot like this, baby. Rrriiiiight up your tight little ass. Tell me—tell me how you like it.”

All you can do is whine, even as you rub your clit in tight circles. 

He slaps your inner thigh and you clench around him at the sharp sting. “Say something, bitch, I’m talking to you. Doing you a favor here. Tell me how my fat dick feels in your ass. Y-you gonna cum already? I better hear my name when you do.”

You want to tell him but you’re incoherent as his massive cock stretches you open. He sets a fast, brutal pace. Forces you to look at him, accept the reality of your fantasy, _getting fucked, begging for a dirty old man to use you—_

You arch to him, your body pulses with need. You want to cum on his cock, cum for him.

Your unashamed desire amuses him. “Nnnnh yeah, I’m disgusting, but you love this. You need this. Say it.”

You need him, he is not wrong. He possesses you too thoroughly to allow any contemplation of why he keeps returning to you.

 _“I need you.”_ The admission comes out as a whisper; he’s curved over you, bracing himself with one hand on your neck.

“Louder. Who controls you, whore?”

“Y-ou do. Rick, you.” In all five senses he is vile. He tastes foul, smells like high proof liquor. Ugly, squelching and slimy. A fully-formed being emerging from the primordial ooze, too assured of his brilliance to accommodate anything less than immediate satisfaction of his cruel and shifting whims. For if Rick is a god, as he’s claimed before, he is the personification of impulse. And then, of course, divinity requires supplication. There must be worshipers below him and you are, reluctantly and gratefully, one of them. “Please… please I’m gonna cum.”

His long fingers tighten around your neck. Panic seizes you as air trickles away, you buck under him, so close to climax. He leans in further, his green dripping face filling your blurred, dimming vision.

“I’m always going to find you again.” He spits in your open mouth, a long fat rope of green saliva. “Thirsty bitch like you, and I-I-I—you’re such a good little slut.” He grins, glistening and horrible and deranged, slowing to fuck you deep and insistent. “So when I let you breathe, you’re gonna prove me right, you’re gonna cum and you’re gonna scream ‘thank you’ and my name. I’d better hear my name. Got it?”

You quiver, mouthing the words, slipping your fingers into your empty aching cunt and pressing your palm to your clit. Good enough. He releases your neck, pulling back and slamming into you again, making you feel every fat inch fill your ass. Over, and again.

You wail something close to ‘thank you’ in the moment before pent up pleasure uncoils and consumes you. Fierce and hot and jagged, it tears through you, devours your senses; Rick’s name claws from your throat, the only coherent thing you can manage. He strokes into you, relentless, praising you in his gruff, ragged voice— _ohhh fffuuck. Goddamn, say it— your ass and mouth and pussy are his to ruin, you’re just his cocksleeve, you’re nothing compared to him, desperate worthless whore–_

He cums violently, with a guttural roar. His load is a gush of green slime, pumping into your ass, but it’s too much, he pulls out, still cumming, and jacks his dick, shoots the rest of it on you. It’s more than a few spurts. Ropes of it arc, and it gets everywhere— your face, hair, blouse and skirt. It soaks through the fabric, clings to your skin. You lie there for a minute, as your heartrate settles, your breathing evens out. You feel mildly ill, a side effect of his toxicity, and his seed is leaking out of your ass onto the office carpet. You prop yourself up on your elbows.

These clothes are ruined, you move to get up, you’ll have to go home and throw them away.

“Where the fu-eeugh-uck do you think you’re going?” Rick stops you with a lip-vibrating belch. “No no no no. Hell no. W-we— You want me to chase you down again? Jesus. No. Too easy. I’m not done with you, slut. Open your mouth. Let’s see if you remember the right way to slobber on my balls.”


	74. Supermarket angst part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The request: Can we please get a part 2 to the reader getting dumped and meeting rick and in the supermarket? Absolutely love your writing!!
> 
> This is a sequel to chapter 2 of this series.

Things seem to have taken a turn for the better in the months since you hooked up with a geezer in his car in a supermarket parking lot during a moment of weakness.

While he fucked you, or rather let you fuck yourself on his thick cock as you rubbed your clit, he had growled things at you that clarified your feelings. And before telling you to get the fuck out (because he had to go take a shit), he had embraced you. He had seemed to understand all of your problems and the wild, unbalanced emotion that came with them. In a strange way, he had helped.

Despite your reservations and shame, you had started to think of him as your good luck charm. For after that encounter, your life had started to knit itself back together again. A series of happy coincidences, one after another, had culminated in your reunion with Alex. His dumping you had been the reason you’d met the guy in the ice cream aisle in the first place.

You are mostly happy with Alex now. You insist to your friends that so much of the dirty laundry is gone, it has detoxified the relationship– though it’s not perfect. In secret the shadow of the breakup hangs over you, heavy and smothering. It makes you carefully weigh everything you do and say with him because you’re worried about giving him a reason to leave, again. You brush off minor frustrations because a confrontation isn’t worth the risk. You go out, or cancel plans, depending on how he’s feeling. You compromise over and over, doing more or less than you want. You do the grocery shopping and cleaning and cooking, even though you both work full time. When he pressed you, you had to agree that his job is more demanding.

Yet, you have an escape, the memory you hold close and hidden. Every time at the supermarket you park near the space he had been parked. You walk by the space, never through it, staring at the pavement to see if there might be fresh oil stains. Could be him. Maybe you’ll see him inside. Though you rarely buy ice cream, or anything frozen, you go down that aisle anyway, every shopping trip. Ambling at a slow pace, in case he might be just around the corner, and if you move too fast you’ll miss each other. You never learned his name. Never told anyone about the encounter, even your sister, who keeps the secret of your petty theft of Red Vines from the general store at Camp Sequoia.

You never see him, but the little rituals give you a fond hope, a little perk of energy as you buy chicken breasts and broccoli and yams and think about how you’d rather not cook tonight. Today, your cart is loaded up with all the staples. You’re about to head to the checkout, had already made your customary pass of the frozen foods, and decide to give it one more go. The idea of heading home and cooking a bland dinner is intolerable. You turn around, back past the flowers; curiosity is a powerful compulsion– and you tell yourself it’s only curiosity, nothing more.

There he is. You stop short, unprepared for the surge of joy. How strange. You don’t know what to call out. He notices you and his mouth quirks in recognition.

“Ohhh shit, look who it is! I remember you!”

You regard him anew. Was he really that skinny last time? Not just skinny but narrow. He has a unibrow and his nose is long and a bit hooked. Not quite handsome. How had you not noticed that the last time? And bizarre that you know what his dick looks and feels like, but you didn’t know, or remember, that he has a bald spot amidst his unruly blue-grey hair. The worst part is, all the flaws make him somehow more appealing, and you yearn to know if he might be willing to fuck your problems away once again. “Hi.”

“Y-you, uh, you’re—-another breakup? Is that why you’re here?”

“No.” You hold your hand out, introducing yourself by name with a wry smile. “Since we never got to that part last time.”

“I’m Rick.”

And that should have been that. You stumble through excuses— better get home, nice to see you again and what are the odds.

But Rick proves just as perceptive as the first time you met him, interrupting your awkward laughter as you trail off. “You got back together with him, didn’t you? The asshole. The guy who dumped you.”

You look down at how you’re dressed, wondering what exactly he read in you. Or are you just that obvious? “He’s not an asshole.”

“Oh! Oh really! I-I-is—I’m just spitballing here— is that why you’ve been stalking this aisle for months and never buying anything?”

Your mouth drops open until he snaps at you, _what are you, a singing trout?_ —and you treadmill through comebacks seconds too late as he lays it all out for you with sadistic efficiency: your desperation for a connection and your repressed frustrations and your willingness to settle for merely the promise of something better.

You finally catch up with him, annoyed and wanting to defend yourself while half agreeing with him. “I’m not—I was miserable when we broke up and—“ you lower your voice when a reflection off a freezer door catches your eye “—and I’m happier than I was.”

“You wanna go on—keep on deluding yourself that’s fine. You’re not my fucking problem, bu—eeurgh—ut I-I gotta say you were a de-eeugh-cent fuck, you rode it like it was the last train to paradise.”

“You…you don’t know how fucking awful I felt, how every little thing made me think of him and I didn’t want to do anything. And I just kept replaying all these mistakes in my head—“

Rick groans to drown you out. “Oh my _god_ you’re boring, boo hoo you had feelings like eeeeeveryone else and you couldn’t deal with them so you figured you’d hop on some old—some nasty old grandpa dick and figure some things out.”

You blink, sidetracked. “You have a family? Grandkids?” 

“Yes, and you’re making it hard for me to ignore their existence by—by asking about them. But my point is, you’re obviously not happy with that limp dick turd because you’ve been coming back here, back to the—the scene of the crime. You want more, right?” He shoots you a salacious grin when he sees your blush. “Hah! Fucking knew it. Y-you’re actually thinking about it too. You might actually do it. Tempted by swangly balls and a little pat on the ass when it’s over.”

“Bastard.” _Grandkids? Really?_

He shrugs, as if that’s a given. “If you treat yourself like shit then I’m gonna—I should treat you like shit. Th-that’s the message I’m getting here. With all this. Tell you what, if you ever want a good time, something to take your mind off things, y’know, take the edge off or you get tired of that loser try—eurgh—trying to wiggle his dick around inside you, you can just go ahead and give me a call.” He fishes around the inside pockets of his lab coat, finds a pen and scrap of paper. He leaves you with a phone number, and one last thought.

“So you know, this— I’m not–, I don’t need to trick people into sleeping with me. I don’t do that because it’s a waste of time and effort,. This is me saying take it or leave it. I literally don’t care.” He pulls a grey gun from within his lab coat and shoots open some strange green portal next to the soy ice cream section. Before you can ask, he has one foot through it. “And also you’re a dumbass.”

**

Over two weeks the slip of paper lives in your jacket pocket (and almost gets washed by accident), a cup holder in your car, your wallet, pinned to your bulletin board at work. It’s a little banner, a talisman. _Take your mind off things_ , it beckons. _For a good time call Rick._

 

Many times you almost do, until work, or Alex, or other plans intervene, saving your integrity, but building up the encounter in you mind. You rationalize and daydream, bite your nails over it. If you could pinpoint the exact moment you decided to make contact, the moment that pushed you over the edge, it would be Alex yelling about keeping receipts, though, no, that couldn’t be it. He’d yelled about that plenty of times before. It’s easier not to admit that you made your choice as soon as he handed you that piece of paper. You’d just rather ignore that there might be consequences.

In the end a text is simpler. _Hey, it’s the ice cream girl. Are you busy tonight?_

He replies with an address, and two succinct words of instruction: _no panties._

You go, with apprehension (and underwear, because it’s cold), and a little giddiness, making an excuse to Alex about a work function. The lie should bother you more.

The apartment building the address leads to is appropriately seedy and run-down. It’s well past dark when you get there, and you step over puddles clutching the paper. He lives alone, you must conclude. Sort of disappointing. You had pictured him in a nicer place, maybe with family.

He answers the door in a dressing gown and slippers, with a bottle in his hand. “Well aren’t you looking fa-eeugh—ancy.”

You smile, smooth your skirt. “You like it?” You’d made an effort, a pretty cream colored dress and heels you wish you’d bought in a darker color because these ones show dirt so easily.

His lip curls, he stands aside to let you in. “Wh-what you’re—why are you concerned with my opinion? Who gives a shit? Y-y-y-you think putting on something nice, putting a nice shiny coat of paint on this makes it less of a shitty thing to do?”

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror. Made-up and lovely, your eyes wide, lips crimson.

“Does that chinless turd know you’re here? Nevermind, don’t answer that. I—eeeurgh— don’t care. What matters is that you’re here. Of your own free will. Right?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“So you acknowledge that this is your own bad decision.”

You cross your arms, looking around the dingy living room. “Can we skip the moralizing? I’m just here to…umm… I just need a distraction. Like last time.”

He snorts. “Good enough. Come on.”

There’s no kiss this time. No tender question about what’s okay and what’s not. He leads you into the bedroom, pushes you to your knees. Nothing under his robe except bare skin, and he shrugs out of it entirely, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You look up at him, the clothing differential should make you feel more in control, since you’re dressed and he isn’t, but it doesn’t.

He is gaunt, his ribs and hipbones are too defined. You get the impression, again, that he gets distracted and forgets to eat.

His semi-hard cock twitches when you wrap your hand around it. Heavy and thick, and his balls are big, too, hanging low– he is an old man, after all, and just thinking about that gives you a little jolt of desire. Everything about this feels wrong– his age, the dishonesty, but it all adds up to a warm thrill that culminates between your thighs.

“I’ve been wondering how well you suck dick. That’s been– it’s a question that’s been on my mind. After all, why would he take you back if you didn’t do at least _something_ right.”

You _do_ have a knack, you’re about to reply, though you’d deny it’s the reason he took you back. Rick, however, has lost patience with your light touch; his long fingers fist in your hair.

“Open your mouth, slut.” He slaps your hand away, shoves his thick erection into your mouth.

“Mmph!” Too deep. Too big. Your tongue is forced flat, but even so his girth makes your jaw ache. You grab his thigh, digging your nails into his skin, and he bites his lower lip, which is shiny with drool.

“Look up at me. Yeaaahh there you go. Let me—- I wanna see your lips around my cock. No closing your eyes, keep your eyes open, I want you perfectly aware of whose dick you’re choking on.” He swigs from his bottle, fucking the wet heat of your mouth with even control, going deep enough to hit the back of your throat, and press his balls to your chin. He laughs when he sees your eyes start to water. “Fffuck yes, that’s a-a good little slut, swallowing a fat dick. Y-y-you love it, don’t you? Gettin– I bet that tight pussy’s gettin slick, isn’t it?”

You moan around his cock, and you are getting wet in spite of how demanding he’s being–or because of it. His fingers grip your hair harder, and with the sting of pain comes a rush of arousal. He reaches down and wipes the tears under your eyes; his thumb comes away smudged with black and he smirks at you. Pulls out, and a string of your saliva trails from your bottom lip to the head of his cock. He hauls you up by your hair, and you wonder if perhaps that part was just for himself, and now he’ll be gentler, the way he was before. You still would have stayed on your knees for him.

“Hey lemme see your phone for a sec.”

You take it from your purse and hand it over. “What are you—hey I have a passcode on that!”

“Uh huh.” He taps on the screen, frowning in concentration. When he looks up at you his eyes gleam. “Get on the bed.”

“Are you calling someone?”

“None of your fucking business!” He snaps, grabbing the back of your dress. You resist, hear the delicate lace tear, but he is too strong. He maneuvers you roughly, tearing your dress more; you end up on your hands and knees, with him behind you. The discovery, when he lifts the hem of your now-ruined dress, of the presence of a lacy red thong provokes an unhappy grunt.

“What the fuck did I tell you about panties?” His free hand grips your ass, hard, and you try to struggle away, whining that it hurts, but he just slaps the flesh. Brings his hand down on the other side for good measure, growls that he likes the way your ass jiggles, and you bite back a cry of–what? Pain? Pleasure? You arch your back, press your hips higher.

He doesn’t make you dispose of your panties, only pulls it aside far enough to expose your ass and most of your pussy. He leans over, gets a little clear bottle from the nightstand. Then, two sounds: the cap clicking open, and your phone dialing, ringing…

“Who are you calling?”

“Shut up.”

“Rick, seriously, who–?”

His hand goes to the back of your neck, his fingers long enough to wrap more than halfway around. He could almost choke you like this. “I said shut the fuck up, slut.” Pushes you down, face in a pillow. Your makeup, whatever’s left of it, smears on the off-white pillowcase. Can’t tell if it’s supposed to be that color or not, and it smells of balsam and cloves and, oddly, motor oil. This brief, pleasant distraction is interrupted by the cool, viscous fluid hitting your ass. Rick multitasks, you can see him behind you out of the corner of your eye, on your phone. At the same time, he massages the lube over your puckered entrance, never coming close to your pussy. You tremble in anticipation, aching with need as he rubs his hard cock against the line of your ass, getting himself slippery. You plead for him to touch your clit, but he grunts, _not until I say so_ , as he works one finger, then two into your ass. He twists them, scissors them to stretch you out, and it already stings, but you moan at how good it feels, and at the promise of getting something even bigger.

He’s scrolling through your phone, apparently, after the call wasn’t answered, and reads excerpts from old text conversations with Alex.

“‘Come home soon, I’m hungry.’ ‘Don’t forget milk and spinach like you did last time.’ ‘Who’s that guy from work you’re always talking about?’” Rick makes a noise of disgust. “Jesus, he asked that, like, fifty times over three hours, talk about insecure. What a douche. You seriously fuck this guy? What, do you just pretend to like it?”

“Can you _please_ not talk about him right now? I’m here to not think about–” you gasp, feeling him withdraw his fingers and replace them with the blunt head of his cock.

“A-about what?” He pushes in, stretching the tight ring of muscle, holding you in place now with a fistful of your dress, and you just _know_ the oily lube stains aren’t going to come out.

You release a shaky breath, feel cool air on the wet tear tracks on your cheeks. Try to relax as he sinks in, working you open with deeper and deeper thrusts until he’s fully seated in your ass. Your pussy is swollen, empty; a pulse of arousal makes you clench around him and he grunts in surprise, but rolls his hips to meet you.

“Th-that’s good. You like this? You like my dick in your ass?”

Your phone rings suddenly, an incongruous happy jingle, that saves you from having to reply. Rick answers.

“Sup.” Rick throws the phone down on the bedspread just out of reach; he’s put it on speaker, and he fucks you slow and lazy.

Your heart drops when a familiar voice speaks.

“Uh, hello? Who is this? I’m trying to reach–”

“She’s busy. You can talk to me, though.”

“ _No, Rick_ –” you hiss, trying to squirm around and grab the phone, but also not be heard.

“Is that you, babe?” Alex asks. “You coming home yet?”

“Heyyyy, Uh, Aaron. Alex. Whatever the fuck your name is. Yeah hey man. This—this is Rick—eeurgh—Sanchez. I tried to call you a minute ago. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on. Your girlfriend’s taking my dick in her ass as we speak a-and I, uh, from the sounds she’s making I think she loves it! Ohhh yeaaahh she’s got a nice tight little asshole, she said she wouldn’t let you touch it because she didn’t like it but I gotta say, I think you were just doing it wrong, man. Sooooo she probably won’t be home for another, uh, hour or so? Two? De-eeugh–pends how long I feel like fucking her.”

You might die. You really might die. Your life is being given away in one phone call. There’s no way to go back from this, and besides, Rick leans over, bracing himself with one arm against the headboard, and pumps into you a little faster. His fingers go to your clit and a desperate whine escapes you. His cock feels exquisite, going so deep. He laughs at how wet you are, mocks your eagerness.

Alex, meanwhile, alternates between screaming your name and demanding to know what’s going on.“What?! What the fuck! Who the fuck are you? Who are you with?” His voice rises, panicked and furious. Rick talks him in circles, until he gets the outburst of emotion he wants.

“Fuck you! Rick Sanchez, right? Fuck you, asshole! I’m not hanging up, I’m gonna find you. I’m gonna trace the signal and triangulate you and when I find you, you’re gonna be in serious trouble.”

“Fuck me? Fuck you pal! Sure, fine, stay on the phone, try to _triangulate_ me, while you do you can enjoy the dulcet tones of this thirsty slut moaning my name as my ba–eeugh– balls slap against her pussy.”

You listen with twisting guilt to Alex’s impotent threats. Rick, however, talks over him, taunting him by turning his attention to you. The stream of filth would be enough to make you blush normally, but with Alex listening it makes you squirm.

“O-hh fuck yes, you take my dick well, right up your tight little ass. You’re such a slut for this, you had to come to a-a-a fucking _seventy_ years– an old man to get what you need. Tell me what you need, slut, and I’ll let you cum.”

You whimper, torn between Alex and all you’ve worked for to get him back, and the primal, overwhelming drive for release. The knowledge that it’s Rick who brings you to this point is not comforting, but at the same time, spurs your lust higher.

“Say it. What do you need? Y-you’re– you like having this fat cock up your ass?” Rick’s breath is short, his pounds into you relentlessly, deep and fast, splitting you open. But the pain and pleasure conflate somehow, and with his fingers rubbing your clit, slipping through the wetness, you keen. A shameful, wanton sound, and Alex has gone quiet, you don’t know if he’s even still there, and are close to not caring.

“Yeahhh that’s it, you wanna– eeugh– wanna cum, and you’re such a desperate slut you’re willing to give away everything for a-a quick fuck when you’re feeling down. Scream my name when you cum, make that pathetic idiot hear what it really sounds like when you–” he burps, strokes into you, not ceasing even as you begin to clench around him. His rough voice urges you to it, taunting in one breath and praising you the next.

“Please…” You try to whisper. 

And he assents. “Do it. Cum for me, slut.”

You surrender to Rick’s ego, his name issuing as a pleading sob. Nothing else coherent. You tense, waves of pleasure course through you and you gasp his name, again, _Rick_ , centering that perfect singular release on his cock stroking in and out of your ass, and his fingers on your clit. You spasm around him, holding tight to the pillow as you press your face into it to muffle your cries, but he won’t let you. He grabs you by the hair again, forces your face up, fucking you brutally, the pain drawing you further in. Your moans accompany the obscene sound of his flesh slapping against yours, and he cums with a loud groan, his hips stuttering and his hand clenching in your hair. He slows, his movements extra slick, the lack of friction on your over-sensitized nerves making you cringe.

He pulls out, leaving you to flop over with cum leaking from your ass. You re-adjust your thong, but that does little to fix the mess he’s made of you. You pick up your phone. You feel shaky, and nauseous, any post-sex enjoyment seeps away. The call is ended, but you don’t know how long ago. How long did he hold out? What was his breaking point?

Rick comes back over, with his dressing gown back on, but hanging open at the front, and his liquor in hand. “Come- c’mon. Get up. You can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“You just made me break up with my boyfriend! I don’t have anywhere else to go!” Fresh tears prick your eyes, start to stream down your cheeks. Your sister lives three hours away, and the prospect of that long drive, and having to explain why you need to stay with her brings a full-on sob.

“Wellll, you should’ve thought about that beforehand. Anyway, trust me, I did you a favor. That’s guy’s a fucking creep.” Rick tilts his head, noticing your emotion, or rather the effects of it. “Yeesh, you look like shit. Clean yourself up before you go begging back to him o-or whatever other lame plans you had for the night.” He wets a grimy towel under the tap for you.

“I didn’t ask you to break up with him for me! That’s– this is insane. You’re an insane person. I don’t even know where to start with you!”

Rick belches, takes a long drink of liquor, belches again. “Yeah, just don’t. Don’t start. Get your shit and get the fuck out.”

_“What?”_

He grabs the torn back of your dress and walks you to the door. “Were you expecting a hug a-a-and some reassuring nonsense about how relationships are work and you just have to be willing to get your hands dirty? I said, get out.” He opens the door, pushes you out into the cold.

“Why did you do that?” You sniffle. “Why did you have to call him?”

“Cause I got bored and you weren’t trying hard enough. Anyway, you have my number next time you need a pity fuck.” And the door slams in your face.


	75. DWC: Rick's heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Rick's heartbeat

Rick drinks himself to sleep but it never makes for peaceful rest. You remain awake. You’re tired too, enough to wonder if you’re really lucid, enough to make time malleable. You live two lives with him. Divided not by days and nights, but here, in the quiet hours, and out there in the whirling chaos of the multiverse. He puts you in danger with little thought, exploits a usually-willing participant, sates your basest desires for his own amusement.

This is the time that’s not for him.

Place your hand upon his rawboned chest and you will feel the divots between his ribs beneath cool sere skin. Smooth his hair back from his forehead to reveal his widow’s peak, though you cannot erase the deep lines from his face or the bags under his eyes.

You prop yourself up on one elbow beside him here in your bed. He sleeps fitfully, you’ve noticed, unless you soothe him; he never means to stay over except he’s learned your place is safe to crash after a bender. You give him room to twist and writhe and at last he settles on his stomach.

The sheet is bunched around his hips, his arms and legs splayed at odd angles. He snores, and even if he didn’t you would not sleep. You doubt he remembers any of this. He’ll never acknowledge it if he does, although it’s happened so often your blankets smell like him even after a wash.

He stirs again, mumbling, and you stroke his head, your palm on the warmth of his bald spot, and fingers playing little arcs in his wiry hair. When he’s conscious he hates being touched like this. Too soft, and he’ll snarl at you to keep your damn hands to yourself unless they’re wrapped around his dick.

You don’t want to change him. You don’t need to hear him thank you.

Lay your head on his back, between the sharp twin ridges of his shoulder blades and you will hear the pumping rhythm of his heart. It does not whir or blink or beep. No mechanical ticking of delicate gears. Just a faint, flickering beat to reassure you he is human. Rise and fall, inhale-exhale. Silence distills his pulse to a duality. You live this half in worshipful stillness, offering what you can at the shrine to his ego. He demands everything from you, and you give him more than he knows.


	76. Roleplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: You and Rick decide to spice things up by role-playing...hilarity ensues

Considering Rick requires constant stimulation— always seeking out new experiences, thrill and risk for their own sake— you’re surprised it’s taken him this long to intimate that he is growing bored of you.

“Excuse me, Mr. Sanchez.” You affect your best approximation of a simper, easing his bedroom door shut behind you. “I’m Yvette, the new housekeeper.” You walk towards him, paying extra attention to swaying your hips.

He takes one look at the scandalous black and white French maid outfit and goes back to his phone. “Meh. Pass.”

“What?” His outright dismissal stings, to be sure. “I thought you wanted to…” You draw your feather duster along his jawline, across his face, then stick it in his ear, no longer trying to be sexy, just petulant.

He swats it away. “Quit– cut it out.”

You straighten up. “I thought you wanted to spice things up.”

He groans, as if explaining it to you is a burdensome waste of his time, and of course it’s your fault in the first place for not understanding.

“Is this because I wouldn’t go to the alien sex gladiator thing with you?” You’d refused, and rightly so; Rick had gone without you and the pictures on his phone were disturbing enough.

“No. And I-I-I’m– I mean this as both a statement and a diss, you probably would’ve died.” He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and concluding the effort with a huge belch. “And _really?_ This is your plan? I’ve seen– there are whole dimensions made of nothing but gorgeous shapeshifters all dressed as maids and all they do is tend to your every whim. Look. You really wanna role-play, baby, I’ll tell you how we’re gonna do it.” In the garage, he tells you, there is a shelf full of cardboard boxes and other junk. To the right of the shelves, there is a switch hidden under the windowsill. Press the switch, and a suit of armor will appear. (“A real one?” You interrupt, but he shushes you.) Get dressed, meet in the backyard in half an hour.

A few minutes early, you open the sliding glass door and step outside, swinging your morningstar and enjoying the way your steps clank on the paving stones. Apprehension seizes you. Rick is impossible to keep up with; you’d expected for awhile that he would eventually greet you with little more than a shrug. Maybe he’s going to get rid of you via trial by combat.

A glint catches your eye, and you hear soft steps and entrancing music before you can see him fully.

“Rick?” You flip up your visor.

He comes into view from out of the shadow of the sun’s glare, twirling a staff. At least, you think it’s him. You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Rick makes for an eye-catching magical princess, complete with tiara and a lovely, ethereal gown that hugs the stark lines of his rangy form.

He executes a curtsy with flair. “Hey babyyyyy! You’re lookin, uh, knightly over there. Chivalrous. Good– nice outfit. Suits you. Ready to LARP it up?”


	77. DWC: Rick pushing you past your limit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Rick pushing you past your limit
> 
> wax play

Rick tests every boundary you set. It’s a matter of curiosity, first, and ego second, though for him those go hand in hand. He has blindfolded you, bound you, whipped you, gagged and choked and suffocated you. Left you for long enough that you thought he was gone permanently. These are all deprivations of things you think you need. Your senses, your breath, your will. Him.

Tonight will be—

“Simple.” He doesn’t waste movement pacing around you.

You swallow thickly, flush with anticipation and arousal. Kneeling as you are, with your eyes cast down, you can only see his waist and below. He’s clothed, you are nude. He holds something in your field of vision: a candle.

You can’t conceal a sharp breath inhaled, or your own hands, flat on your thighs, clenching briefly. You’re not very good at this. Doing what you’re told requires a ‘why’, and even with that you might resist and question.

Rick knows this. He knows that you struggle, and knows what you need. He lights a taper; you can’t see but you hear the strike of the match, smell the burning sulfur.

“Y-y-you– gotta stay right there for me. Don’t—“ he holds the candle over your right shoulder, near your ear. A drop of hot wax hits your skin. Just a drop. You twitch. It’s not enough to hurt, too small. Then another falls, and two more and the heat of it. You hiss at the spark of pain, which radiates through you, spirals out to a warm pleasure that pools in your core.

You hear Rick make a low, rough ‘hum’ in response. He walks in front of you, and you can’t help flicking your eyes up because you need to see him. You have to know if he’s as affected by this as you are, and _oh yes--_

There’s no hiding the bulge of his huge cock even before his lab coat swishes in front and obscures it again. And he doesn’t miss your disobedience.

He swats your face with his free hand, a light warning. “Don’t move. Don’t you dare move, you’re mine to use, slut.” He drips more wax on your other shoulder and it dribbles down, searing and then cooling to a hard shell. More again, alternating shoulders, and you want to writhe and squirm and plead to him.

“Be good and I-I-I’ll fuck your sweet tight cunt after this.” He brings the candle down past your face, lower, allows you to see as he tilts it and burning wax splatters between your breasts. You quiver, unable to suppress a moan.

“Be perfect…” his voice rises, teasing while he moves the candle over your left breast. “Be perfect, stay absolutely still, and I’ll fuck your ass.”


	78. reader on top slow easy sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Some days I'm super thirsty for Rick. Like super thirsty. Like, 'plow me into the bed so hard that fucked breaks and keep fucking me into the floor below' thirsty. Other days, reality comes by and wacks me upside the head with a 2x4 with the more realistic image of me clambering ontop of those old bones and riding him into victory. Slowly. Gently. Dude is old don't wanna break those hipbones with my fat ass.

Stumbling through a portal with Rick at around 2:30 a.m. results in an instant scene change. A smash-cut from the pulsing writhing orgiastic din of an extraterrestrial dive bar to the familiar stillness of your apartment. He always chooses your place. He keeps you at arm’s length from his, and anything that might invite you to consider him as more than convenient stress relief.

He’s had his hands on you all night, groping you, grinding the ridge of his cock against your hip as you leaned over the bar to order another round. He can’t wait to get you home, he growls, can’t wait to hear the sounds you make as he sinks his cock into your sweet wet pussy.

But of course he _can_ wait. He pours liquor in his face all night, dances in a cage, finds a couple blue skinned aliens who he claims are down for a foursome.

Before the portal closes with a _pop_ he’s already kissing you, his mouth hot and searching. His stubble scratches your chin. It is a clumsy kiss, sloppy, and the heady scent of whiskey pervades everything.

He claims you, holding you by the neck, nuzzling your jaw, telling you he didn’t really want to share you with those weird ass aliens anyway, Each step to the bedroom, one of you loses an article of clothing; Rick knocks a picture off the wall when he nearly falls over removing his shoes.

The extended teasing over the course of the night has wound arousal tight in your core. He trips backward through the doorway, lands on his back on the bed. Naked, and his massive cock lies heavy against his stomach, his ribs and hip bones jut sharply under his pallid skin.

“Nnnff fuck. Y-y-you. Get on top of me, baby, c’mon.” It’s an odd demand, for him. He’s more likely to bend you over, his dominance and control so natural you stopped questioning a long time ago.

You straddle him, careful not to jab him anywhere painful with your knee. He doesn’t care if you’re not graceful. You’re willing and warm and that’s enough.

_Tired old man mode tonight?_ You tease him, rubbing your wet slit on the hard line of his erection. Skin on skin, aching gradual need.

_No, drunk._ He guides you to raise your hips—he’s himself, still, grumpy and impatient, grumbling at you to watch it because his old bones are brittle— and you moan sinking back down onto him. The blunt plush head pushing into your cunt, he fills you slowly, inch by inch, so _big_ you breathe, trembling.

He laughs. He knows he is and likes to hear it. Likes to watch as you ride him, drinking in the curves of your body, the way you undulate, dizzy and buoyant. You’re drunk too, the sweet spot between buzzed and plastered that makes your body pliant and sensitive. 

He rolls his hips up lazily, setting the rhythm. Deep, insistent, languid.

He is never quiet. He can’t be, you’ve tried. Tested him, teased him, fucked him in public but just out of sight. Then he’ll lower his voice, he has the sense to do that at least, but he still has to tell you how gorgeous you are, what a good slut you are taking his dick. Even tired as he is now, he can’t help himself. “Play with your tits,” he orders you, his voice rough with lust. “Th-thaaat’s it, baby, fuck that’s– you’re so damn sexy.”

Rick looks every bit his age: hair a misty silverblue catching light, face lined, cheeks hollow. His body is too skinny beneath yours, almost fragile, but he fucks you like he owns you, all the way, his thick length stretching you, oversensitizing you. 

You lean forward brace one hand on his rawboned chest and snake the other one down to play with your clit. Circling your finger there, deliberate, loving the way he bites his lower lip, which is shiny with drool. His pupils are blown wide and black, your desire transfixes him. He steadies you, his hands holding your waist, angles you so each stroke hits your g-spot.

The tension is perfect, delicious, simmering as low heat in your core. There is resonance to this, a wandering, boozy enjoyment he rarely affords you. Your voices mingle, you moaning and him urging you, feel his fat cock splitting you open, that’s it, you’re so close, cum on his dick.

For once he doesn’t tell you to scream his name, but it tumbles from your mouth anyway, a helpless moan.

“Rick, oh god…” Pleasure unfurls, blooming and twining through you. You keep rubbing your clit, all dexterity gone as he pounds into you. Your cunt squeezes around him, drawing him in, too tight, too much. His release follows yours, he groans, his body tensing, each pumping stroke growing slicker with his seed.

He falls asleep almost straightaway after you clamber off of him. On his back, not good, you know even in your drunken haze. You must turn his head so he doesn’t aspirate vomit in the middle of the night and choke. Satisfied he’s safe, you clean yourself up and then lie down next to him; he flails and tosses and turns and snores.

You think about shaking him awake. And yet, you won’t, and you can come up with any number of excuses why. You get up, sit in the armchair, and watch him sprawl and tangle himself in your sheets, staving off sleep until you drift to it.


	79. DWC prompt: I like the sounds you make when I tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC prompt: I like the sounds you make when I tease

It is almost laughably easy for Rick to restrain you. Embarrassing, really, because he has so many options, from ambush to brute force, but here you went and walked right into this one.

“A-a-a plate of cookies? Th-that’s all it took? _Really?_ ”

You glare at him, suspended in a web of gossamer fiber much like a spider’s. It hadn’t been visible, or perhaps you hadn’t been looking hard enough. “You knew I was hungry!”

“You– I just– oh my god! That plate of cookies bit works on Santa Claus, not grown ass women!” He doubles over laughing.

You test the bonds again, though you’ve been struggling for half an hour. At least you’re not upside down anymore. “Rick!” You yell at him. “Rick, get me down!” You twist and writhe futilely, exhaust yourself and resort to name-calling. “Fucking…asshole!”

When he looks up again, his expression is different. Still amused, but dangerous.

He grins, sauntering towards you. You realize that he had arranged the trap to catch you at the exact height and position he would need to toy with you. And, naturally, he had made sure that you would have to look up to meet his eyes.

He cups your mound, pressing the heel of his palm to your clit. You whimper, trying to roll your hips, need friction, but you have no leverage, and he knows it. He strokes your slit over the fabric, as slow as he needs to elicit a huff of irritation from you.

“I know, baby,” he laughs. “I-I-I-I know you want me to fuck that tight little asshole. Tease you, maybe bend you over and l-lick— eat that sweet pussy, tongue your ass a little.”

_Oh fuck._ A shock of arousal pulses through you, everything is suddenly much too sensitive. “Rick…” You were only wearing a t-shirt and panties at the time of capture; he has easy access now, with your arms over your head the hem of your shirt rides up.

“Or…” his voice goes lower, rougher as he nuzzles your stomach; he has to bend to do it and you see his bald spot surrounded by a crown of his unruly blue-grey hair. You yearn to touch him; voice this, and he denies you.

He kisses and bites your jutting hip bones between words. “I could put you on the bed o-on your back, hang your head off the side, use your mouth.” He laughs at your needy moan, his breath hot against your skin. “God, fuck yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?

“Little slut,” he adds with a note of affection at your swift agreement. “Y-y-you’d let– you want me to shove my fat dick down your throat, that– on the bed like that would open your throat for me, I could fuck your face so deep, even let you have one hand free and I’ll watch you rub your clit while you suck my cock.”

He draws away for a moment, and you whine for him back. This is unusual for him. Slow, measured– but tormenting you is the only way he’s patient.

It’s not for you. It’s for him, to hear you beg and come undone, to hear your desperation manifested from his total dominion over your being.

He pulls the fabric of your panties up, tight, bites his lip eyeing the outline of your sex as if he’s never seen anything more enticing. That’s the friction you need, pressure on your clit, you can feel how wet you are. And Rick is holding himself back.

“Yes, oh, _fuck yes_ Rick, please… “ _More._

In response he releases the material, giving the elastic band a snap for good measure.

“Rick!” You pout. If you could slap him at the moment you would. “Rick, what the fuck! Why?”

“Y-you– I’m hungry.” For pussy? No. He pulls up a chair, sits in front of you with the plate of cookies in his lap. “Keep struggling, we’re gonna be here a whi-eeugh-le. I want that cunt– wanna feel it niiiiiice and juicy when my balls slap against it as I’m fucking your ass later.” He takes a bite of a cookie. “And why? Because I like the sounds you make. So, uh, be a good slut. Make some noise.”


	80. Walpurgisnacht (Demon Rick)

This night is one for anticipation. For gathering and dancing and singing. On this night, winter is sealed, and summer is unleashed, and yet as the revelry dims you find yourself restless. Something calls to you, some faint whisper that beats in your veins. You had burned dried sage, thyme, rose petals, lemon balm. All cultivated by your own hand, but the unease lingers: the offerings you made were not enough.

You wander from the bonfire. Deeper into the woods, where the air is clear and you can smell the cedar woodsmoke on your skin and clothes, the lavender oil dabbed on your wrists and neck and breasts. Grass beneath your bare feet makes for soft footsteps, and it’s not until you pause that you encounter the alluring source of the disquiet.

You never would have noticed him if not for the belch, which he makes no attempt to conceal. Whirling around, you see a silhouette, darker than the shadows surrounding it. He— whatever he is— moves in an unnerving, graceful way, and you try to track him, but he never quite emerges from the edges of your vision. Not until he wants to.

“Well now, look at you.” A wolfish grin twists his features, and his eyes gleam in the darkness. “Aren’t you… pure.”

Your flowing white shift, woven of fine cotton, does nothing to obscure your figure. The way it clings to you in the changing breeze only seems to intrigue him.

“Where’s my tribute, huh?” A dark substance coats his chin and lower lip, you think it’s blood at first. When he draws closer, passing through a beam of moonlight, you see with an even more unpleasant start that it’s his saliva. Black and viscous and oily. The air around him shimmers, as if distorted by immense heat.

You shiver, willing your voice to be steady. “What–who are you?”

He stalks toward you with a drunkard’s precarious balance. “Demon– euurgh– Rick.” In his right hand he carries a bottle, which he brings to his mouth and gulps from.

Your heart beats wildly, you repress all you can, and you’re left with the simplest essence of emotion. Terror. Base fear, knowing the answer before the fiend guesses.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the, uh, the offering.”

“No, I’m not. I’m—“ you were about to tell him your name. After all, he had offered his own so freely, so casually. Stupid. As if wandering off alone on this night, of all nights, wasn’t foolish enough.

“Why not?” He towers in front of you, his visage ghoulish.

_Yes, why not? It’s only your name._

Every instinct and rational thought you have implores you not to trust him. But your own senses seduce you. His tongue darts out and you register distantly your own shocked gasp; it’s split down the middle, and the fascination that drew you into this darkness in the first place intensifies. You want him to taste your cunt with it, taste how sweet and wet you are, feel those two halves on either side of your clit. Arousal edges fright away, winds through you, insidious, calling sweetly to submit. Just once. Once is safe.

“This is _my_ night. You’re celebrating me, aren’t you, with all of that– those rituals.”

“No.”

He’s close enough to touch you now; you are rooted where you stand, you won’t back away. His free hand won’t stop moving, his fingers twitch, as if needing to do violence. He knows he almost has you. He grasps your jaw, takes another slug from his bottle, and forces you to look into his eyes. “You should.”

_Offer yourself._

The same strange compulsion that summoned you here overpowers logic, it is stronger than fear. He searches out what you want and reflects it back to you; when he bears you to the ground your resistance is half-hearted.

He dips his head, tasting you, licking your neck to see what sounds you’ll make, growling and you can smell the liquor on his breath.

“Lucky, lucky. You’re so… lucky,” he tells you, as if revealing an intimate secret. _To be naive. To have the joy of first times. To experience new and fleeting delights._ He cleaves his rangy body to yours, you can feel his huge erection against your thigh, and nearly the full heat of it.

Your breathy moans aren’t loud enough to satisfy him, he bites to bruising, sucks the skin, rolling it between his teeth. You clutch at his arms, basking in the heady mix of pain/pleasure/pain. He anoints you with it, this is his gift to you, he tears your shift thread by thread as he trails marks down your body, until he ends up at the crux of your legs, and…pauses.

You’re suddenly acutely aware of your breath, the rise and fall of your bare chest, the full moon above, the living forest around. And this demon. His unruly blue-grey hair, backlit by moonlight, and his cadaverous body upon which tattooed runes of binding are bisected by scars.

That should be all the warning you need. Should be.

He sits back on his heels, pushes your knees wider regards the spectacle of your exposure, then repositions, bringing his mouth down to your pussy.

You were right to be curious. His tongue is bizarre and wonderful, each half moving, giving a different texture, somehow, as he laps at your slit. He takes his time, oddly patient, teasing out your need, fraying the edges of your self-control. He licks once up your slit, then again, a third time. Mounting pleasure flares, you arch to him, moaning his name, and he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your sides.

“Tell me,” he breathes between long, slow licks at your clit. “I know what you desire, tell me.”

“I… _oh ffffuck please…_ ” he’s already built you to incoherence, you reach for your climax.

“So _tell me._ A-ask for it.” But he chooses that moment to suck your clit, his whole mouth over it, swirling his tongue and devouring your wetness.

“Rick!” Your body hums, for all he takes, he gives you more, beckons you, you’re so close—

And he stops. “Tell me,” he bids you, and it’s not for your submission. He already knows what you want, already has you pinned. He drags his tongue over your clit, firm and deliberate, making sure you quiver, unfulfilled. Almost, please, you whine.

His voice pitches low, rough with lust. “Tell me.”

So you give him your name.

His face lights with impish glee. _Lovely,_ he exhales. He repeats it, draws it out, turns the vowels and consonants in his mouth and finally licks his lips. That tongue again. He sees your desire and flicks it at you indecently, mimicking what he’d been doing to your clit a moment ago.

“God, Rick…” you plead to him.

His mood shifts, he frowns. He reaches for his bottle and drains it before tossing it aside, and in an instant he’s on you. It’s all swift and fluid: he hooks one arm under your knee and flips you over, you hear/feel the rustle of fabric as he frees his cock. There’s liquor on his breath, potent and spicy, he fists a hand in your hair and wrenches your neck, forcing you to look at him— _y-you—c’mon, slut, I wanna see your face_ – as he hauls your hips back, aligns his cock to your slick pussy and shoves in.

You cry out, clenching around him, he’s massive, stretching you.

He wastes no time, picks up a fast, brutal pace, rutting and grunting. He recites your name, chanting it under his breath as he rocks into you; you raise your hips to meet him—

“Stay. _Down._ ” He punctuates that order with a deep thrust; his cock fills you completely, his balls press against your sex. And still you resist, arching your back and crying out.

“I said down, slut, face in the dirt.” He holds you by the back of the neck, puts you where he wants you, and stills, making you feel his girth split you open.

You whimper, he’s so big, the pressure from this angle on your g-spot overwhelming on your already-sensitized nerves. He snakes a hand down, circles lightly over your clit, coating his fingers in the moisture.

“Thaaaaat’s right, _shit_ this is a-a-a tight little pussy, and– it’s mine now.”

“Please, _please_ Rick… I need to— I’m gonna cum, please!” The words tumble from your mouth, you squeeze around him, holding your pleasure at bay, he will be merciful, he’ll allow you this and then you’ll return to the fire and wake from this nightmare.

“No. I-I-I don’t think so, not yet. You’re my slut now. You’re mine, your pleasure is _mine._ ” He takes his hand away, moves again, slowly, pulling almost all the way out, then sinking back in. He describes with a hoarse groan how perfect you feel, how your sweet pink cunt spreads around his cock, swallowing his shaft inch by inch.

“Pathetic _nnnff_ – desperate whore. You’d give up—surrender everything just to satisfy lurid curiosity. You can’t go– the-eeurgh-re’s no going back.” He leans over, murmurs against your neck. 

“I can’t un-know your name.”

Dread seizes you. He’s right. You are his to fuck, his to possess, his to destroy, and the most disturbing part of all this is how close you are to accepting it.

He licks and kisses your neck, then eases up on the weight and pressure to hold you by your waist, driving into you with deep, sure strokes.

You reach one hand down and rub your clit, you have to. No other choice. Your fingers slip in the slickness of your arousal, you can feel his balls slapping heavily against your flesh as he pounds you, his thick length splitting you open, over and over, until he rends what little is left of your self-control.

Exquisite pleasure overtakes you, radiating out from your core in waves. You spasm around him, feel tears leak from your eyes, it’s too intense, too much. His name is the only thing you can say, you wail it, begging, promising him anything.

All his rhythm goes. His hips snap against yours, and with a carnal groan, he cums. He pumps his seed into you, swearing a string of filth, dragging your hips back up so he can keep going even when you sag in exhaustion.

You cringe away, overstimulated, and he barks at you–- _I’m not done, slut_ –- only to release you soon after.

You collapse on the grass, shivering. Without his proximity the heat dissipates. He stands above you, watching with a displeased expression as you fumble for your ruined shift. You could walk back naked, no one would think anything was amiss, save for the dirt on your face, grass and leaves in your hair, bruises…

_What have you done?_ This was a grave mistake, no matter the reward.

You stagger to your feet.

“Wh-where do you think you’re going? I-I-I don’t think so. Your ass is mine now, bitch, we’re–” his hand shoots out, closes around your neck. Your heart thuds in your chest, you can hear it grow louder as his grip tightens.

He forces you back to your knees. “Open up, you’re gonna lick this load off my dick. Mhmmmm, taste yourself too, don’t you? So-so fucking we-eeugh-t for me, so _willing._ Clean it alllll up, nnnhh yeah, that’s it.” He says your name, fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth. He repeats it, twisting it with a beguiling tone, your mind is trapped, screaming at you to run, to fight, to struggle. You can’t. 

You gaze up at him, transfixed. This demon rules you as the shadowed host of your darkest dreams, you are bound to him as a reflection is bound to a mirror, where you were not meant to look too closely. There is your name again, on his lips, and you fall further in.


	81. Rick double dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick thing based on a realllllly weird dream I had.  
> warning: DP

The metallic hum of a portal opening is among the sounds you least expect to hear in a conference room at work. It’s a sound you irrevocably associate with Rick now, one of his ‘sci-fi’ noises, and a sure signal that there’s either adventure afoot, or he’s just going out to get pizza and beer.

It comes from behind you, as you’re shuffling papers together after your meeting– an hour long waste of what was only supposed to take thirty minutes, but at least it’s over.

You spin around, see the portal hovering in midair, barely a foot from your face. Before you have time to contemplate how tall it has to be to accommodate Rick’s height, he bursts through. The roiling spiral bows outward, like a balloon being stretched, or surface tension of water, then pops out of existence in his wake.

“B-baby– babe, I got– quick, take your clothes off. Pa-eeugh-nties down.” He grabs your shoulders, his eyes wide, blue-grey hair unruly, drool glistening on his lower lip and chin.

“What?!” You say too loudly before lowering your voice. “Rick, this is my workplace. we’re in a conference room.” You peer around him, and through the frosted glass walls see blurred outlines of coworkers walking by. If they see him in here, nevermind if he does what you suspect he portaled in here for– and when has he ever given a shit about propriety?— this midday booty call is a terrible idea.

He shakes you urgently, and that’s when, turning your attention to him, you notice that his pants are already most of the way undone, the two ends of his unbuckled belt hang loose, his button undone. Fly still up, that’s something, at least, but it looks like there’s one too many bulges…

His patience expires. He grabs you by the back of the neck and whips you around, pinning you to the cool glass. You’d barely caught a glimpse of what has him so riled. “Rick, what the hell! Do you have two dicks!”

“Yeah, hell yeah I do, ch-check me out! W-w-we gotta– we’re trying this, I’m taking these babies for a test drive, before the– nnnfff– serum wears off.”

“Rick!” You hiss. “There are people _right outside._ This–” you hear the zip of his fly, rustle of fabric, then feel something very strange indeed “–this room isn’t sound-proof.”

“Then shut. Up.” He growls against your neck, working your skirt up over your hips. “shut the fuck up and try not to scream when you take my d– my two dicks.”

You twist around, more curious than resistant. “Did the serum give you an extra ball sack too?” Double everything? What could it possibly look like?

He laughs, a rough, lustful sound. “What, you want more of my swangly balls to slobber on?” He fumbles with your panty hose and finally rips a hole in them.

“Rick!”

“Thirsty slut. I-I’m about stuff your ass and cunt at the same time and y-y-you–” He strokes two fingers through your slit, gathers the slickness of your arousal. “Fuck, you’re wet. ready to go, What do you do all day here, finger yourself under your desk? Can’t stop daydreaming about licking my nuts.”

You repress a whine, canting your hips and arching your back. The danger of being discovered in here is all too real; the passers-by outside have dispersed for now, but there are sure to be early arrivals for the next meeting. But that fear is thrilling, and it inflames your desire hotter. How long have you wanted him to come fuck you at work, only he was too lazy, or hungover, or already drunk at 11am?

“Nnnnh yeah, that’s it, goooooood slut, you know what to do…” He presses the tip of one of them at the entrance to your pussy. Just as big as always, as thick and hot. He pushes in, not all the way, then spits (more like aggressively drools). A gob of his alcohol-laced saliva hits the exposed skin of your ass. Still holding the back of your neck, he uses his free hand to gather his spit, along with your own juices, and prepare your ass, working open that tight ring of muscle with one finger, then scissoring two.

It’s barely enough. He’s rushed and careless, and knows that, despite your anxiety, you’re just as desperate for this. He positions the other fat, plush cock head at your ass, lets go of your neck– spread your ass for me, slut– holding each of his cocks and sinking them both into you, inch by inch.

You breathe out his name, a pathetic, needy moan. He’s DP’d you before, but never going in both holes at once, it’s always been one, then the other.

This is strange.

This is _exquisite._

Fully inserted, and he stills; you drop a hand to your clit and your fingers slip in the wetness, massaging circles. He fills you completely, both shafts thick and solid and hot. With both of them attached to his body, the angle is unusual, putting pressure on your g-spot, stretching your ass. He’s too big, it’ll all too much, but the sting is wonderful, and you tell him this, your breath fogging the glass. He muffles a groan at the crux of your neck, rolling his hips, experimenting with it.

He works up to a pounding rhythm, one of his long skinny arms barring you in place against the glass; with a shock of horror you realize the wall isn’t entirely frosted, the bottom foot or so is regular transparent. Anyone happening by would see your heels and his loafers, in a suggestive position and know what was going on. Rick is careful to keep you from squirming too much, fucking you deep, and you wish you could see his face. More than the morbid curiosity at whatever weird science he did on himself today.

“Ohhhh fffuck yes, th-this– you’re perfect, baby, so good like this, so fucking sexy taking my–“ he pauses, chuckles lightly. "damn it, I-I-I don’t even know. two dicks? twin cocks? who gives a shit, you feel soooo goddamn _tight_ ” —his breath hitches when you clench around him, you’re already close, your arousal dripping down your legs, ruining your pantyhose. 

_Do that again_ , he demands, explaining in his gruff voice that when he’s fucking you with another Rick, his dick makes you even tighter and vice versa, but now—

Now he gets all of it. Now he feels all of it. Now he’s gonna dump his load in your ass and pussy, _and you’re a little slut_ , “g-go ahead, scream for me, wanna hear what you sound like taking all this fat dick.”

You moan, stretched, overstimulated, rubbing your clit as lapping waves of pleasure start to flood you, gentle at first, but with Rick gentle never lasts. He rocks into you, building you higher, his free hand gripping your hip for leverage. He fucks you hard, using you, splitting you open.

And then you crest. You spasm around him, clapping one hand over your mouth before anything too loud escapes. You squeeze your eyes shut at the pleasure, at the delicious sting of two huge cocks slamming into you.

He grunts, going harder, you know he’s annoyed that you stifled his name. His balls slaps against you, he adjusts, smacking his hand against the glass wall with a reverberating _thunk_ to brace himself. As he cums, he growls more obscenities, praise to you, to the bizarre wonder of this experience. You whine into your palm, riding your orgasm down as he pumps two loads into you, each stroke growing slicker. Then slower, still deep, slower.

You drop your hand and inhale a shaky breath. He pulls out, you turn. “Rick, can I see—?”

“Ahhh too late, baby!”

Indeed. You only glance one strangely withering appendage, alongside his softening erection. Two balls, not four. Situation: normal?

You right your dress, feel his cum leaking out of your ass and pussy. Rick pulls out his flask, takes a drink, and belches before tucking himself away. He sees you staring and winks at you, and it’s so absurdly charming, you won’t even care when he portals out again. Yep, normal.


	82. Chef Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request: Hi can I have Chef Rick who has mild cake play with a sugar hungry slut? Cake play optional of course I just think Rick’s cute when he cooks :>
> 
> cw: anal sex, pussy eating

Rick approaches baking the same way he does his science: experimenting, tinkering, precise yet messy, and with a lot of vodka. Or in this case, bourbon. Vanilla cupcakes, infused with bourbon ganache and topped by sea-salt buttercream frosting.

There’s also the distraction factor.

You’d wandered into the kitchen at 9am; and it’s so rare for him to be awake before you, though following your entrance, it doesn’t take long for him to lose focus.

You’re trying to follow his recipe for the cupcakes, after he had foisted on you the task of completing it while he watched The Great Rickish Bake-Off on TV; his distraction warping to boredom, which in turn becomes _your_ distraction. 

You switch off the mixer when you feel him come up behind you.

He licks a spoon of frosting, and grinds his clothed erection against your ass. “H-how’s it coming along?”

“Pretty good.” His instructions are not intuitive or easy to follow, but you’re making it work.

Naturally, the conversation spirals from there, devolving to the point that he asks: “No? You’re not wet?”

You shrug, giving him a coy smile over your shoulder. “We’re just baking, Rick. I’m not a sex maniac, I’m not horny _all_ the time.”

He frowns, the subtext of that expression being ‘biiiiiitch please’. “Take em off.”

“What?”

“Panties. Off.”

You obey, making sure to bend and make a spectacle of it. Unnecessary, he snaps at you, he’s seen your ass and pussy plenty of times before.

You go deliberately slower, then turn and hold them up, a black scrap of lace dangling from your index finger. “Can we get back to making cupcakes now?”

He snatches them from you, holds them to his nose and inhales, then raises one side of his unibrow at you. That’s when you know you’ve been caught.

“Open.”

You smooth your skirt and go back to mixing the batter, wondering how much teasing it will take to rile him. “Just a minute, Rick, hold on, this is a crucial stage, I have the ganache on—“

He grabs you by your hair, wrenching your head around. Not very much, apparently. “O-open your damn mouth, bitch.” His voice is rough and low with lust.

Your exclamation, some variant of “what the hell, Rick!” is cut off as he stuffs your panties in your mouth.

“wthrrrrmm!”

“Don’t think so.” He smacks your hand away when you bring it up to take them out. Smacks it away again, and there isn’t a third time. He handles you roughly, spinning you around and binding your wrists together behind your back, then shoving you to the floor.

You stumble, though manage to soften your landing on your shoulder. He follows you down, clapping a hand over your mouth when he sees you start to succeed at working the lacy fabric out of your mouth.

“You aren’t wet, right? You aren’t a little slut with a juicy cunt? Tell me what you taste, baby. Bet it’s niiiiiice and sweet.” He grins, knowing you can’t respond save for muffled grumbling. He lifts the hem of your skirt, bunches it around your waist.

“Legs. Spre—eeurgh—spread your legs for me–“ he settles between your knees, smacks your thigh when you don’t go fast enough. “Wh-what– you wanna be difficult? Lie there and pout?”

Sitting back on his heels, he starts unbuckling his belt; you can see the bulge of his erect cock in his trousers.

You glare at him, trying to telepathically communicate both ‘eat my pussy’ and ‘fuck you’.

One side of his unibrow quirks up, he frees his massive length, hocks and spits. He regards you for a moment, pulling his length in long, full strokes, then adjusts forward. “Y-you want my dick?”

You lift your hips, whining around the gag.

“Blink twice if you want it.” He laughs, teasing, rubbing the head of his cock along your slit, giving you meagre friction. He spits again, wetting his fingers, drawing them through your folds, down—

“here?”

You nod.

–down lower, his fingers touch the sensitive pucker. “Here.”

_Yes._ He knows what you like, knows you all too well. As he massages the opening, prepares you with one finger, then two, then tilts your hips up, aligns the blunt head of his cock there and pushes in– the whole time, throughout all of this, he watches your face intently, smirking. He breaches the tight ring of muscle, you shut your eyes and keen through the gag at the stretch, at the insistent desire pooling in your core.

Rick grunts, muttering about how good you feel, _how fucking tight you are_ , he holds you by the backs of your knees, pinning them to your shoulders, opening you completely. He braces himself like that, putting weight on you, you squirm, your arms under your back lifting your hips for him.

“Ohhh ffuck, baby, l-look—look at that tight little asshole swallowing my cock, I know you feel it, thaaaaat’s it, good girl—“

You moan through the gag, willing him to understand how much of a jerk he’s being, here you’ve been helping him this whole time and he… he…

He rolls his hips, fucking into you with progressively deeper strokes, and pauses, finally, fully sheathed in your ass. You quiver at the stillness, at the sting, the pressure, all of it conflating to a pulsing ache. What were you doing again? Concerns fade into the distance. With a shuddering groan he moves, his fingers digging into your legs as he thrusts, his girth splitting you open.

Drool coats his lower lip and chin, the barest flush tints his pallid, gaunt face. His eyes are hooded, pupils blown wide and dark with lust. It’s rare to see him like this. A privilege, since he prefers to flip you around, bend you over, fuck you from behind. All impersonal, except you doubt you could ever forget it’s him. 

“Y-y-you’re not gonna cum just from this, are you?” He bites his lip, his gaze tracking down your body to your exposed, empty cunt.

You give a muffled whine, clench around him on purpose. _Please please please just a little more…_

He feels you. Feels that, lets out a helpless sigh of delight. “Fuck, ohhh fffuck, do that again, slut, maybe after I—after I fill your ass with cum I’ll untie your hands, let you finger that sweet pussy.” He picks up a faster pace, arching his thin body over yours, rutting, pounding, using you as a vessel for his enjoyment.

_Close, again._ Your clit throbs, even if your mouth were free, even if you could vocalize your pleading, it wouldn’t sway him. This is his show, he’ll do what he wants with you.

His breath hitches, he tells you over and over, you’re so gorgeous, such a good slut, taking every fat inch of his dick, you’re goddamn perfect– his hips stall, then his rhythm goes erratic; he’s pumping cum into you with deep, driving strokes, each a little slicker than the last, a little slower.

Eventually he stops, waits a beat. You wonder, in the delirium of denied need, whether he’s going to let you cum at all, or if he’ll haul you to your feet and hand you an electric mixer. Swift and fluid, he withdraws, takes your panties from your mouth, and in that moment, you know— he slides down your body and covers your cunt with his mouth.

“Rick!”

You let out a sob of shock, of relief, and oh, the heat of it, his tongue flicking the sensitive flesh as he applies light suction. He wastes no time, sliding one finger in, then a second, curling them up to press on your g-spot.

“Ohh fuck, Rick, oh my god,” you pant, completely unrestrained. “I’m gonna—I’m—“ 

He lifts his head briefly, “th-that’s it, cum on my face, scream my name, slut,” then laps at your clit, swirling his tongue, building that perfect maddening tension—

And you shatter. Waves of pleasure break around you, flooding your overstimulated senses. The intensity of it is overwhelming, you can’t help crying out, or clamping your thighs around his head. His free hand clutches at your hip, he hums as you ride his face.

He sits back on his heels, licks his lips and tucks his softening erection back in his pants. “That was a, uh, messy one,” he remarks.

You moan in response, rather weakly. Rick rolls you to one side, unties your wrists, then straightens up and steps over you.

The volume on the TV comes up louder. You hear the sultry disdain of Rick Hollywood, and the reserved kindness of Ricki Berry, the two judges on the Great Rickish Bake-Off.

Rick belches. “Miiiiiiight wanna get back to that ganache, the– all that cream’s gonna go bad, it’ll curdle if you leave it too long.”


	83. DWC one prompt for all: SEVENTY!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the renewal of the show for 70 more episodes.

“Rick, how old–”

“No.”

“–would I have to be before you look at me and think to yourself ‘nah, I wouldn’t hit that’?”

“Oh. Uhhhh. Not a weird question. Not- not putting me on the spot here or anything. No wrong answers here.” He steps back and tilts his head to scrutinize the whole picture.

“Sixty… eight?” You ask in what you recognize is not a sly tone. He refuses to tell you exactly how old he is, or his birthday. You’ve tried to do some detective work. The ID he carries is a fake. The photograph on it is some other old man.

He grunts, glares at you, gestures for you to turn around, and spins you by your shoulders when you don’t do it fast enough. “Y-y-you’re overlooking one key factor here.”

“What, that you age at the same rate as me? Yeah, I don’t care. You know I like the…” 

“Swangly balls, yeah. At this point I can’t tell if they’re just that wrinkly, or they’re all rai-eeugh–raisiny skinned from you slobbering on ‘em.”

You grin at him over your shoulder. “Soooooooo… seventy?”

This line of questioning has never led anywhere productive. The fact that he hasn’t made more of an effort to deflect you yet is surprising. He steps closer, presses his body against yours, letting you feel the hard line of his cock through his pants. Yep, there it is.

“Seventy-one? Seventy-t–mmmph!”

He claps a hand over your mouth, his other arm wrapping around your waist. His gruff voice against your jawline shoots a jolt of desire down your spine. “You skipped one.”


	84. DWC: I went to water my plants on the balcony and you’re on yours with a tinfoil hat what the hell are you doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: I went to water my plants on the balcony and you’re on yours with a tinfoil hat what the hell are you doing

“Rick?”

“Mmm.”

“Remember when we went to that restaurant on the Gromflomite home planet but we had to wear disguises because you’re a wanted criminal and you really just _had_ to try their pierogis?”

He grunts, but it sounds like a positive grunt. Nostalgia is intolerable to him, though occasionally he’s too tired or distracted to rebuff you. Engaging him in pre-coffee early morning conversation is a calculated risk.

“And then you decided they weren’t even that good!”

“Figures those bugs would be sucking their own…dicks? Probosci? Flappy doodles?… figures they’d be tooting their own horns on Yelp. That review was a fa-eeeuugh-ke.”

“Seemed pretty convincing.

“ _You_ fell for it,” you add lightly, after a beat of silence.

He raises one side of his unibrow at you in the mirror, then continues to shave. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, watching him progress through his morning routine: brush teeth, floss, wash face, shave. These are the boring parts. The aspects that don’t fit neatly with his crime fighting/committing space adventure grandpa persona.

Supposed to be boring. You wonder briefly why he hasn’t shooed you away yet. His patience is dangling by a thread, you can tell, but he’s not done shaving.

“You know there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask.”

“No thanks.” He casts around for something— “I’ll portal you outta here, don’t think I won’t.”

“When we first met, when you were living in the apartment next to mine. And I went to water my plants on the balcony and you were on yours with a tinfoil hat–“

“Th-this isn’t—you’re not revealing anything new here. I was–eeuurgh there.”

“—yeah, what the hell were you doing?”

He wipes lather off his straight razor on a wet towel. “Testing antenna gain. DUH. G-got any more stupid questions? Cause I got stupid answers lined up.”

Oh, of course. Should’ve been obvious. And he’s about finished. That means question time is over. You stand up, shake your head, can’t resist one more prod. Stupid questions, indeed. “Would you rather have coffee first or a blowjob?”


	85. DWC: Toxicity Beam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Toxicity Beam

It’s not uncommon for Rick to be MIA for weeks. Just straight up persona non grata. It bothers you, both his unexplained disappearances, and the fact that each time he’s gone it’s progressively more clear to you that the concern is one-sided.

Life is easier if you dismiss that nagging thought. Every time he comes back makes up for it in the moment; a veritable collision of a good time pulls your attention long enough, rattles your skull, pour drinks in your face, he fucks you right. Then an adventure here or there and you’re ready to settle down again and not hear the metallic hum of a portal opening for another three months.

In the meantime, he uses your address for shipping intergalactic packages. They tend to pile up around the coat rack by the front door.

You never open them, not that you aren’t intensely curious. You shake them, like a kid inspecting wrapped presents on Christmas Eve. On a lonely, boring Friday, when Rick’s been gone long enough for you to miss him, an intriguing box arrives.

It’s the size of a mini fridge. No lifting it and shaking it, then. You haul it the center of the living room, turn it over, over, over.

All sides blank except one: 

‘Do Not Open’. As if there could be any clearer sign that you’re meant to do the opposite.

A minute later, you toss aside the box cutter, sip your glass of wine, and open the flaps. Styrofoam packing peanuts, that’s good. No severed heads from the Mob, then. You come across a thick book first.

‘Owner’s Manual’ is embossed on the glossy cover, overlaying a dated graphic of abstract geometry. You flip it open and read the introduction.

_Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of a Sanchez, LLC. Wave Ionic Directed-Energy Plasma Reactive Induced Charcoal Counter-launcher Mk II. (WIDE PRICC- II). Yes, we know it’s a mouthful!_

_Refer to the quick start pamphlet to begin._

(You do, and quickly discard it. The pamphlet only has unhelpful, crude diagrams with no explanation of what they’re supposed to depict. Back to the tome-like manual.)

_Section 1.2.4 –a. SAFETY_

_Safety is priority numero un— juuuuuuust kidding! Got you good, suckaaaa!! Who gives a shit, this thing is precision designed with state of the art AI and neural interfaces. It couldn’t hurt you even if it was running Skynet. Have fun out there!_

_***WARNING!!!*** DO NOT CROSS THE STREAMS OF TWO OF THESE BABIES WE HAVE NOT TESTED THIS, WE HAVE NO CLUE WHAT WILL HAPPEN.ACTUALLY GO AHEAD, IT’LL BE FINE. PLEASE WRITE TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS WITH YOUR RESULTS:_

_72 CEDARLINE ST, DIV XVI, MUSKEGON, MI 49445_

You slam the manual shut with a satisfying thump. None of this is useful. Might as well just try this thing out, whatever it is. You dig deeper into thE packing peanuts, and uncover a massive futuristic looking rifle. Or, cannon, perhaps? It’s ruggedized, and you hope whoever chose this hideous drab green was fired from the design committee.

You heft it out of the box, and can’t tell which is the shooty end. You wrap your hand around what feels like a grip, make sure none of your body parts are in the line of fire from either end, and squeeze. Lightly.

A beam of green light shoots from the end pointed behind you. At the same moment, you hear a portal open, from the direction the beam went. It goes into the portal, you whirl around in time to see Rick step through, covered in green muck and looking furious. Well, you did just shoot him with the WIDE PRICC- II.

“Sorry, Rick, I…” the instinct to apologize dies along with your enthusiasm for playing around with unfamiliar weaponry. Like prey aware of the gaze of a predator, you move gingerly to set the gun on the floor.

Rick lunges, grabs you by the front of your shirt and shakes you. “W-w-what the fuck did you do!?”

“I don’t know! That manual didn’t explain anything! And you wrote it!”

He growls, his now-goopy unibrow forming an angry V. “Figures! Figures you’d take a peek, you’re fucking obsessed with me!” He releases his grip, leaving a residue of foul-smelling gunk on the fabric. “Pathetic!”

Whatever happened to Rick, he can’t seem to stop shouting. He picks up the heavy manual and pamphlet, scowls at the manual and chucks it over his shoulder.

“ _Give_ me that! And stand over there!” He directs you to the far wall next to the TV, engrossed in whatever the pamphlet has to teach him. “Feel free to move slower, o-oh yeah, roll your eyes at me, you little shit. You really fucked up now!”

“Rick, what the hell! What’d that thing do to you?”

He grins, a maniacal glint in his eyes, and rips the pamphlet in half before snatching up the weapon. “Freed me.” He levels the barrel at you and fires.


	86. DWC: I said "you're not you when you're like this". He said, "isn't that the point?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: I said "you're not you when you're like this". He said, "isn't that the point?"
> 
> cw: alcoholism

‘Functioning’ is such a sterile word. A machine functions. Gears click, tooth after tooth after tooth fitting together, belts spin, the gauge flickers, dips a little sometimes, maybe overheats. Maintain it, and it performs.

Rick claims that he functions. 

“D-don’t…” he mumbles from beside you, “don’t let me drink tomorrow.”

He asks every so often. You ignore him. It’s a request he only makes when he’s plastered, usually in your bed, late at night. You think he’s sincere. Hard to say. Efforts to enforce it the next day are always brushed off. Rudely, bordering on violence.

In the light of day regret is unfamiliar to him. Sometimes you see him shuffle to the fridge the next morning, bleary-eyed, open it and stare for a moment. But he always makes the same decision.

Late nights/early mornings bring 3am lucidity, naive, well-intentioned, doomed-to-fail promises. That’s when he doesn’t want to imbibe. That’s when he asks, when he’s so far gone, for you to stay his hand. When he reveals mundane trivia about himself like his dream vacation spot, and the girl he had a crush on in elementary school, and the boy he had a crush on in high school. 

Slouched in his armchair in front of the tv the next day, he won’t admit any of it. Without a science project to inspire him, he is listless and inanimate.

You hand him the bottle he asked for. “You’re not you when you’re like this.” You expect vitriol. Expect him to rail at you, a perfect drunken storm. Something along the lines of asking what the fuck do you know about what he’s like. He tips the bottle to his mouth, gulps. It runs down his chin, stains his shirt.

“Isn’t that the—urp—the point?”


	87. DWC: Backrub (Cop Rick x reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: backrub

You marvel silently at the miracle occurring before your eyes. For once, Rick is letting you do something for him. Something languid, and intimate, and impractical.

Coming off an 18 hour shift, he’d greeted you with little more than a strained smile, and a kiss on the forehead. Shucked his utility belt, unbuttoned his uniform blouse, ended up facedown on the bed in his underwear.

There you kneel next to him, place your palm on his back. The scars on this side of his body are less familiar to you; the longest one is a diagonal strike crossing his left shoulder down to the lowest of his right side ribs. Numerous others warp the pale expanse of his skin, like burls on wood. An oblong, dark pink scar near his spine, the result of catching a bullet at an angle, and other strange marks where it looks like the skin was seared away. Wounds from blaster bolts, maybe.

You ghost your fingers over them, trying to set them in tactile memory. You could ask what they’re all from, though he won’t tell you.

“Dpoaodk,” he says into a pillow.

“What?”

He raises his head, which un-muffles his voice. “Deeper. You can– you won’t hurt me, just, really get in there. I’m so–” he gives up the effort, lets his head flop back down “–tired.”

You shift, straddle his hips so you can use both hands. Digging into the juncture of his neck and shoulders with your thumbs elicits a hoarse groan.

“Were you waiting up for me?” he mumbles.

You were; you don’t answer.


	88. DWC: 100 word drabble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 words exactly

It takes you an age to realize that the only thing that truly delights Rick is his own genius.   
To be sure, it’s a blinding presence. It mesmerizes you, shimmers and shifts, seduces you like a mirage.   
Being subsumed by his aura is a garish fantasy, and all too easy. You run and follow him, delude yourself, but _oh_ it’s fun.   
It’s only possible if you’re willing to overlook so much. And thus, when your head is finally clear, your eyes unclouded— the drugs and liquor and god knows what worn off— you must be the one to walk away.


	89. DWC: Sex and Candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DWC: Sex and Candy
> 
> blowjob, F/F, F/F/M

“I dunno, Rick. She might taste better than you.”

His jaw works for a moment, his unibrow furrows into a V, his lips press into a thin line. But he stays seated, palming his erect cock through his slacks. As if telling you to enjoy his patience while you can.

Candy, the gold skinned girl you’d seen dancing at the bar, blinks her wide eyes at Rick from beneath wavy hair the color of cotton candy. A picture of innocence, flawless and saccharine. She pulls you back into a kiss, her hand at the back of your neck, carding through your hair. She teases soft sounds out of you; you breathe them to her in between nipping at her lips. She really does taste like her name and you can’t get enough.

You slide your hands down her bare sides, to the dip at the small of her back to the curve of her ass. She breaks the kiss to smile at you, murmurs something about how you’re neglecting Rick. That’s not high on your list of concerns at the moment; you’ve already eaten her pussy once, and you want to make her writhe and come undone a second time. The fact that Rick was watching was a bonus, listening to him groan by your side, kissing her much as you’re doing now, but breaking away to observe you between her thighs, and offer gruff, obscene encouragement.

Now you hear him stand up, grumbling something about a blind taste test. Then the creak of leather, clink of a buckle. He’s undoing his belt. Time’s up. You and Candy pull apart, and when Rick commands you to your knees with little more than a quirk of a smile, you’re already there.

He doesn’t bother to push his trousers all the way down, just pulls out his massive cock and balls. You lean in eagerly. Your own desire is pulsing, still unsated. Sucking his dick always winds you up tighter, hearing him praise your virtue or lack thereof, the intimate trust of pleasing him. Between that and the immediate satisfaction of something sweet, you’re torn.

“Nooooooo fucking way, baby,” he grins, rubbing his dick on your face, everywhere except your waiting mouth. “Ba-eeugh-lls. Lick my balls. You, w-w-what was it, Candy? Shaft. Get in there, both of you.”

Candy isn’t fast enough for him. “What, you on break or something? Let’s go, sugar tits. Snap snap.” He grabs a fistful of her pink hair and wrenches her head back, guiding his thick length into her mouth. “Nnnnh yeah, that’s it, g-good girl, take it all in, as much as you can, theeeeeere ya go.”

You notice Candy’s eyes watering, she chokes Rick’s cock; you put your hand on her back, kiss her shoulder, murmur to her how gorgeous she looks. You cup one of her breasts, rolling the bud of her nipple between your fingers. Her eyes flutter closed at that, she whimpers. Rick starts thrusting shallowly, using her mouth. You’re almost jealous. You ghost your fingers down her stomach, dip between her thighs and run your finger along her wet slit, then bring it to your mouth to taste her once more.

That doesn’t escape Rick’s notice; he frowns. “Wh-wh-what the fuck did I tell you, slut? L-lick my balls.”

You shift on your knees, getting low enough to suck one into your mouth, while Candy works his shaft. For once, he’s content not to facefuck whoever’s on their knees for him. She swirls her tongue around the head, you switch back and forth, licking and sucking and listening to his low, rasping voice. 

“Wh-what do you say, slut? Good, right? Between her and my— these swangly old man balls there’s no competition.”

You pull away, drawing Candy with you. “You’re right, Rick, there isn’t.” And kiss her yet again. He grumbles, but doesn’t force your attention back, stroking his length. The kiss is leisurely, open mouthed, sloppy, priming your desire anew. A hint of the musk and salt from Rick’s skin remains, but it’s mostly her, a heady warmth, sweet and delicate and promising.

When you part, a string of saliva stretches between your lips and hers.

Rick groans something incomprehensible, sounds almost desperate.

Arousal rushes you, insistent and dizzying. You take him in your mouth, deep, feel him at the back of your throat, and lick a hot stripe up the underside as you release him. From there, you and Candy take turns, gazing up at him as you both lick and suck his cock.

Rick bites his drool covered lower lip, holding the hem of his shirt up high enough to expose his hipbones and lower stomach.

“Ohhhh fuck, yes, th-that’s good, that’s fucking perfect, holy shit—“

You reach for his balls, squeezing them lightly, rolling them in your palm, enjoying the hot silk of his skin. Candy trace a vein along his dick with her tongue. You lick up the other side, and both meet at the tip, getting distracted briefly kissing her again and oh Rick had better fuck you after this, you’re _aching_ —

“Open your mouth— mouths. Both of you. Nnnnff _ffffuck_ I’m— im gonna cum. Both of you sluts open your damn mouths. Y-y-you’re gonna get—-“ he breaks off, his whole body tensed. You and Candy sit back on your heels, she slides her arm around your waist and presses her cheek to yours. Rick’s pupils are blown black as he pumps his huge girth; he casts his gaze down at the two of you, his mouth twisted in a smirk. Your pulse spikes yet again, you open your mouth in supplication, stick out your tongue, yearning for a taste.

Thick ropes of cum arc from his cock, so much of it, hits you in the face, your neck, your tits, your hair. Candy, too, gets a fair amount, it splatters both of you. When you open your eyes again, you can’t resist kissing her, drinking the bitterness so you can swallow her sweetness one more time.

Above you, Rick slows, finally holds his hand for you to lick clean, which you do. He gives you a perfunctory head pat and collapses on the bed, falling asleep straightaway. You frown at his prone form. You were hoping for more.

Candy shrugs, as if it’s no real loss. “Any chance you have a strap on?”


	90. Artist Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU: Rick as an artist.  
> my internet bff suggested it and we brainstormed many of the ideas present in the fic.
> 
> pussy eating, PIV sex, and shibari

Rick breakfasts daily between 5:30am and 6. He never quite finishes what he makes himself. A dry crust of toast. Flecks of coffee ground dregs at the bottom of the mug. You know this because you’ve been over to his house for all types of lighting. 

Punctuality is essential to pleasing him; this morning you arrive at half past nine, you ascend the winding path to his front door, stomping the water off your rain boots and shaking out your slicker under the awning. You let yourself in, calling out your presence.

No answer. That’s typical.

Everything unrelated to his painting is crammed into this entrance space. The kitchen, laundry, dining area. As you shed your belongings, you pass the remnants of his breakfast and head for the bathroom, where you change into a plain cotton robe.

Perhaps he will indulge you today.

You’re sure he wants to, sometimes. There are days when his dark eyes shine, and he watches you put your robe back on as if he has something to say. But his lips press into a thin line, he’ll turn back to his canvas and take a drink from one of his ubiquitous tumblers of _absinthe verte_.

But what if he _did_ stop you? Your mind takes you there effortlessly as you go into his studio at the back of the house. At the end of a session when instead of dismissing you, he might command, “lie back” after washing the paint from his hands. Surely this would be indulging himself as much as it would you.

“Good morning,” you greet him, still distracted by fantasies of his hands on your waist and his mouth on your cunt.

“No.”

When he’s not sitting straightbacked at his easel, he’s slumped on a threadbare chaise-longue. In either pose he manages to be elegant, his limbs are made of long sharp lines. It’s one or the other, no compromise.

What will it be today? Will he grace you with ropes? It’s early, there is time for him to do an elaborate binding. A warm thrill winds through you at the prospect, trickles down your spine and pools at your core. Makes it a little harder not to fidget.

He heaves himself to his feet, swaying. There’s a single, small pawprint in the middle of his forehead. From his cat, Herve, tracking through paint and then stepping on Rick while he was sleeping. It gets smudged when he rubs his face. “G-go-- you get over there. Naked. You need an invitation? Hurry up. Got a commission due in a week and I haven’t started.”

“A commission?” You risk pressing for information.

One side of his brow arches at your prying. He stares down his nose at you, his face an aloof mask. “What, you’re shy all of a sudden? Move. We— I-I-I’m losing light here.”

Your thoughts spin as you go to the dais, you shrug out of the robe, leave it in a heap close by. His preference, in case he wants to see fabric draped over your form. He rarely says much to you, and thus you thrill at his rare observations and instructions.

You go through several poses over the course of half an hour. He hates all of them, though he doesn’t instruct you to adjust at any point. He tears through page after page of a large sketchbook, switching between charcoal and graphite and ink.

“What’s wrong?” You ask.

He frowns at you. “I-- statues don’t talk, that’s what’s wrong. A-a-and you. You’re posing like a model in a stock photo.” He drops the sketch pad, and bids you stand up, directs you to a small cabinet in the back corner of the room. “Bring me that rope.”

The process as he binds you is an elaborate one. You strive mightily, each time you nude model for him, to hide your attraction and arousal, though you can hardly be still. He has to know, but he’s never commented, usually too wrapped up in painting.

He begins at your neck, doubling the rope and looping it around. He takes time and care, creating this binding, humming to himself. His voice is rough in a pleasing way.

This will be one of the times you leave his house on weak legs, your core thrumming with need. And you’ll reach your own place, collapse in bed, and fuck yourself on your fingers, whimpering his name desperately as you cum. It will never feel shameful. Only a natural reaction.

As he works you register each instance his fingers brush your skin. The backs of his hands, too, passing the line over and under and around itself. Each one lights a burst of arousal, which builds, higher and brighter, until your body hums with it.

He kneels to loop one end of the rope between your legs; the movement puts his face right in front of your sex.

“Hmm,” he says. He’s never shied away from looking at any part of you directly, and this is no exception. “You let it grow out a bit.”

You come to your knees while he retreats to his easel. Bound, your legs are forced apart, your arms folded behind your back and tied.

The silence he imposes is not stifling. It opens up an entire inner world, where your thoughts wander.

When you find your center, an hour into the pose, modeling for Rick is meditative. Do not ruminate on what happened before. Do not guess at what’s to come. Fixed and still though you may be, you are not frozen. Then you can enjoy your surroundings. Diaphanous curtains billow like jellyfish in front of open windows. Rainfall on the peaked wooden roof provides a backdrop of sound.

The place smells of turpentine and petrichor, though Rick himself smells rather pleasantly of cloves. Glasses of the green liquor are set everywhere, anywhere he might be and need one handy, and they catch light in their color, shining like jewels. Those, and Herve’s wayward paint paw prints, brighten an otherwise monochrome space. Rick likes it that way. No distractions.

For a while this seems to work. You fall into the space, the contortion isn’t uncomfortable. And yet you can’t maintain the calm.  
Everything is fine except--

“ _Why_ are you shifting? Stop moving.”

You try. The line of knots between your legs presses against your clit, your ass, the buds of your nipples. Stillness is unbearable.  
He puts aside his brush and palette, takes a drink from the first glass his hand finds. He regards you intently for a moment, perceptive, as if he can divine your ongoing struggle, then belches and returns to you.

For a moment, standing before you, he stares down, his expression inscrutable. Then he kneels, unbalances you, maneuvering you to your back, and himself between your legs.

His eyes are dark. He can see your arousal, you’re sure. As if your wet cunt isn’t enough of a clue. Your cheeks are flushed, nipples peaked, eyes glassy.

At last, he speaks. “I know. You want me to fuck you.”

You begin to nod, relieved, but he cuts you off. “Not a question. Y-you— you like posing for a nasty old man like me, feeling my eyes on you.”

He bends his head to study your cunt. Presses his thumb to the knot right over your clit.

“Tell me, what will it take to get you to sit still and yet not be wilted and lifeless?” He circles his thumb slowly, “You want me to—“ he dips his head to lap once at your clit, “—eat your pussy so it’s nice and sweet and juicy.” He loosens the rope there, and only there, pulls it to the side.

“Mmm.” He hums, a low chuckle at the way your breath hitches, and licks again. “You’d have me pause my work to attend to you. Desperate slut.” He’s matter of fact, though an undercurrent of amusement colors his tone. “Y-you—you wanna feel my fat cock deep in your cunt.”

“Yes! Please.” You gasp. when he lowers his head once more, places his mouth over your cunt and swirls his tongue. You watch him down the length of your body, awed each time he lifts his mouth, which glistens with your arousal. He teases you, flays your senses raw, and devours your expressions. His wild hair tickles your thighs, you wish you could clamp them around his head and ride his face and take what you’ve wanted for so long.

But-- _oh_. Isn’t this better? This gradual, maddening climb. You watch his head, his bald spot, the smudged gold pawprint above his unibrow, his long nose, all new from this perspective. Even in this he luxuriates, lapping at your clit, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.

When he hears a tremble in your voice— _yes, oh god Rick please please I’m gonna cum_ – only then does he relent.

Measured and fluid, he rises, wiping his mouth on the inside of your thigh. He undoes his trousers, freeing his massive erection. Biting his lower lip, gaze fixed on your expression the whole time, he presses inch by aching into into your slick cunt.

A low moan issues from his throat. “Nnnnnfff fuck, y-y-you-- you’re fucking gorgeous. Look at you, taking my dick like this.”  
His thick length stretches you, splitting you open while you’re pulsing and raw.

He moves slowly only to savor your expressions, fucking you deep, all languid and patient. Gripping the backs of your knees, spreading your legs wide, taking you apart and remaking you with every stroke in and out.

You buck and squirm as much as you can. He refuses to be drawn in or go any faster.

He dips his head, kisses your shoulders and breasts and neck. Looks for your reaction each time. You smell the fragrant liquor on his breath, and cloves again, and linseed oil.

“Yes, ohhh yes, that’s it, good girl. Niiiiice and slow,” He rolls his hips with a groan, adjusts when he feels you start to clench around him. His narrow body arches over yours, back curved, head bowed. Braces on his elbow by your shoulder, his hand tangled in your hair. “Th-that’s-- there you go, that’s it, cum for me, I wanna see you cum.”

You whine, straining, which only achieves the ropes digging into your skin. They’ll leave marks when he frees you. Beautiful, textured patterns. He’ll trace them curiously after he unties you, as he’s done before. They fascinate him.

He fucks into you harder, filling you, and you gasp, begging him for more, you’re so close. With an approving groan he slips his other hand down between your bodies for his fingers to rub tight circles on your clit.

“Good girl, good little slut, _oh fuck yes_ , you’re goddamn perfect, cum on my dick, Let me feel you—“

All the tension and pressure, his thick cock pumping into you, his fingers on your slick flesh, it all builds to a single, glorious point. And collapses.

Pleasure suffuses you, distills to ecstasy. There is nothing else. It pierces you, perfects you. Incoherent sound rips from your throat, the closest to ‘Rick’ you’re capable of. He pulls back enough to watch you with hooded, lustful eyes, his sallow cheeks tinged pink, biting his lower lip. Murmuring praise and filth in your name, he continues to rock into you, and finally sighs his release.

He presses his forehead to yours briefly, then kisses the same spot before he withdraws.

“Rick?”

“Don’t move.” His voice is hoarse, but commanding as ever. He tucks himself away, does up his trousers, and retrieves a sketchpad and charcoal. For once, he talks to you as he draws, seated between your out spread legs. Capturing the remnants of the glory he had wrung from you.

You lie there, sated and dreaming. He shows you the sketches later, another first, after he’s untied you and distracted himself with the imprints left by the ropes. This is the one he’ll use for the commission, he tells you, letting you see the only one where he hadn’t drawn your face. Your body is there, crisscrossed with rope, bound, back arched, the ridges of your ribs and hipbones stark. The omission makes it ambiguous—pain or pleasure?

To your surprise, he allows you to stay as he works. You lounge and sip on absinthe. Herve comes over to demands pets, and you catch Rick watching you late in the day after the rain has cleared and the sun is low and warm.


	91. Rickmobile  2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weird and slightly meta fic based on my experience a few days ago when the Rickmobile rolled through town!

You sigh, checking your phone and trying not to visibly cringe as the crowd around you cheers and whoops. Whatever you were expecting from an event centered around the Rickmobile stopping in your mid-West hometown, call and response chants hadn’t factored into it, and you can’t help but thinking that Rick himself would groan and roll his eyes about the whole thing.

Besides, you’re tired after a full day at work, had rushed over here just to snag a parking spot half a mile away and stand in line for hours in the heat.

Cranston, the promoter, is standing atop the U-to truck with a bullhorn, yelling things like: “when I say wubba lubba you say dub dub. Wubba lubba—“

“dub dub!” At least most people are into it.

You hunch your shoulders over and refresh your email inbox again and try to tune it all out. Someone behind you jostles you; you look around and see a man—an _old_ man—cosplaying as Rick.

It takes a moment to register, you do a double take. “Hey, nice costume.”

He gets a flask out of the inner pocket of his artfully-stained lab coat, guzzles from it, and belches in your face.

Wow. Real dedication to the character. That’s real liquor you smell on his breath, and he reeks of whiskey. And as you peer closer, surreptitiously, you realize it’s the best Rick cosplay you’ve ever seen. He looks like what you imagine a non-cartoon version of the character would look like. He’s actually _old_ , his face lined and gaunt, he’s over six feet tall, skinny on what can only be a diet of alcohol and minimal food. His hair, too. It’s a corona of silvery-blue, spikey and wiry—just as you had imagined. You want to run your fingers through it, and when he briefly turns around you note the bald spot, right in place.

There has to be something wrong, something lacking, otherwise it would be too perfect of a cosplay, and you’d swear he was the real thing—

“Wh-wh-what’s wrong, what’re you staring at?”

His voice. He can do The Voice. But not just doing it, it sounds exactly right.

“Uh… nothing, sorry. I thought you were…” you trail off, shock and arousal flooding your senses in equal measure. How many times have you fantasized about hearing that voice moan filth against your neck as he fucks you hard from behind--

“What. You thought I was what?”

Blushing, you swallow thickly, hoping he can’t sense your attraction to him.

Before you can gather your composure, and stop wondering about who this guy really is, Cranston makes an announcement over his megaphone.

“Alright, Rick and Morty fans, nice enthusiasm, love your energy, thank you for coming out today. While you’re all waiting here we have some games and activities. First up, the cosplay contest! We’re looking for the Rickest Rick and the Mortyest Morty! Come on up here, guys, have a friend hold your place in line.”

You glance at the man, and raise your eyebrows expectantly, nodding towards the stage area.

_“What?”_

“Aren’t you gonna be in the contest?”

After snapping at you, _yeah, duh_ , he elbows his way to the front, and hops up on the stage with a lot more energy than you’d expect from a guy his age.

In the lineup of other cosplayers, he looks even _more_ like the real thing. He’s the oldest by far, tallest and skinniest, and though some of the others are mean mugging and trying to get in character, he carries himself with the right sort of swagger.

Confident, a little bored, like he’s doing everyone in the vicinity a favor just by existing.

And to think, you’d been wondering why you had even bothered to show up for this thing, other than to buy a few t shirts and some exclusive collectors pins. Now, at least, you can entertain yourself imagining that this cosplayer is the real thing. His demeanor makes it all too easy to picture him the way you’ve written about him so many times: rough and demanding, gleefully transgressive. Omnipotent and trying to numb himself with all manner of hedonistic self-destruction. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll bring you along for the ride. 

Cranston tries to bring order to the mob. “Okay folks, so the way this is gonna work, we’ll have each Rick step forward and introduce themselves one by one. Please—PLEASE!—hold applause until the end. We’ll be voting by shows of applause as well, so don’t tire yourselves out. We good? Everyone clear on that?”

One person starts applauding; the overly excitable crowd laughs and cheers.

The real Rick, as you think of him, chooses several key moments during other contestants’ introductions to burp loudly, and when it’s finally his turn, he snatches the bullhorn away from Cranston.

“Hey! HEY! Listen up, if you listen to someone today, listen to _me_ and not one of these low effort imitations. Yeah, I said it. My name is Ri—eeeugh—ck Sanchez. Dimension c-137—“

A solitary ‘woo’ rises from the crowd.

“hell yeah! I’m a-a-- the O-G, the Original Rick babyyyyyy!” He pauses to swig from his flask, and doesn’t wipe away the spit that dribbles down his chin. “I’m the real deal, _I’m_ who you came here to see. Don’t kid yourselves! Would you be happy driving all the way here in your station wagons, standing out here in ninety degree weather for four fucking hours just to buy some ‘exclusive’ t-shirts? A-are you—what, are you joking me with this? A truck with my face on the back? It looks like I’m crouched over getting ready to take it up the ass.

“And by the way, no one asked me to use _my_ image, h-h-how—who do I ask to get my cut of the cash from merchandising, amirite? All _these_ assholes—“ he gestures to his fellow competitors “—yeah, you all owe me! I accept American dollars and galactic Flurbos and rolls of Blips and Chitz game tickets in increments of 200 or higher. So –eeeurgh—pony up. You _don’t_ have my stamp of approval, by the way, _Cranston_. I-I-I-I—no one consulted me!”

He continues his tirade, punctuated by belches and profanity, and ends with “enjoy grazing at the monument to late stage capitalism, you’re all sheep!” before Cranston is able to wrench the bullhorn away.

“Alright, thank you, Rick from c-137! Looks like someone’s really getting in character here, taking the method acting approach to inebriation, and this seems like a good time to remind everyone that this is a family friendly event!”

Scattered, uncertain cheers follow this, and Cranston moves on to a woman who introduces herself as Rita. You catch real Rick giving her an interested side-eye.

He is who he says he is, you’re almost certain at this point. It’s a strange thing, it feels surreal.

The contest progresses down the line, Rick narrowly avoiding disqualification after yelling about another contestant’s (admittedly bad) wilted blue wig. 

Finally it comes time for the judging, and Cranston orchestrates it with gusto.

Real Rick doesn’t win. Deemed ‘too old’, and ‘trying too hard’; the double middle fingers he holds up to the crowd cement his identity in your mind.

“Yeahhhhh that’s right, fuck you, y-y-y-you’re all pieces of shit! Thanks for nothing, assholes!”

“Okaaaaaaay!” Cranston swoops in again, with another reminder about language and family-friendly atmosphere. Rick is trundled off stage under threats of calling the police over drunk and disorderly conduct, but you don’t see the rest of it. The line to purchase moves along, and you with it.

You emerge from under the tent a few minutes later, arms full of merchandise, and Rick’s big speech making it all feel very unsatisfying. You look around, hoping to spot him and at least ask for a picture. He’d been the only contestant not to produce a portal gun and wave it around. Perhaps you could ask to see what you’re sure is a functioning portal gun, and talk about surreal again--

But he’s gone.

You push your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose and trudge the half mile back to your car. The event hadn’t been a complete wash, at least. You got your merch, got your photo taken with the Rickmobile, and had met the man himself. Strange, but hey—anything’s possible.

Tired, sweaty, staving off complete disappointment, you round the corner, thinking about what to do for dinner, and then you see, about twenty feet away, the tall, white lab coat and stick legs silhouette.

Last chance. You have to ask him. Have to say something. Anything. You figure the worst that can happen is that he’ll laugh in your face, call you crazy, and then you’ll never see him again.

Heart pounding, you call to him, “How does it feel to lose a contest where all you had to do was be yourself?”

He whirls around, his unibrow furrowing to a V. “Th-th-that—it was bullshit! An entire herd of morons who’re obsessed with me can’t recognize the real thi—eeugh-ing.”

You give an apologetic shrug, wondering if he’s going to shout ‘wake up, sheeple!’ “You didn’t exactly endear yourself to the crowd.”

Rick scowls. “Oh, but _you_ liked it, huh? How the hell did you know, anyway?”

“Know it was…? Oh, um. Just a really big fan of the show.”

He stalks towards you; your arousal from earlier flares in your core, twining through your consciousness. He grins like he can see the need in your eyes.

Something compels you to continue. “It’s… I, um, write a lot of fanfiction.” You clear your throat, and say the next part quieter. “About you.”

One side of his unibrow quirks up. He knows he’s got you. As if to prove himself, to erase the last vestige of doubt in your mind, he retrieves his portal gun—no cheap plastic toy—and opens a swirling green vortex to your left. Directly in front of you, he leers, and dangles his hip flask in front of your nose. “Whaddya say? Wanna come and have a drink with grandpa? And, uh, I swear this is the only time I’ve ever said this sincerely, tell me about this fanfiction you write.”


End file.
